


Red Door Supper Club

by Watergirl1968



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content, blended modern & retro AU, bottom marco, day7:introductions, jeanmarco as parents, marcobodtomweek2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:53:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8550556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: In 1979, Marco, a shy University student, has his first date with another guy. He's unsure of his own appeal, but determined to begin living life on his own terms. He ventures downtown to the Red Door Supper Club, and his evening takes an unexpected turn when his date is late...and a young tradesman doing repairs at the Club is more than happy to occupy his time.





	1. Can I Help You Keep Your Cool?

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in two eras; the late seventies, when Jean and Marco meet, and also in 2015, through the eyes of their grown daughters.

**Toronto, Canada, 2015**

**Mattamy Athletic Centre Hockey Arena**

**Ryerson Rams vs. York U. Lions**

 

Aimee sat in the stands, just behind the penalty box. The arena was chilly; her breath puffed out in a small, frosty cloud, and the seat beneath her backside was cold.

She had one earbud jammed into her ear and listened to the University radio commentators calling the on-ice action from the booth high above the ice surface.

 _'A heated exchange'_ was how the commentators characterized the friction between the York Lions' big left-winger and Ryerson team captain, Violet Bodt-Kirschstein.

There had been seven face-offs between the two women, Violet getting the best of her opponent on most of them.

A whistle sounded, and Violet circled the end zone, her hazel eyes hard. She skated to the bench, spat out her mouth guard and a spill of profanity in the direction of the Lions' bench.

"Vi," Violet's teammate nudged her. "Chill."

But Violet was in no mood to heed this advice; she glowered down the boards, tipping her water bottle and squirting it's contents into her mouth.

Aimee frowned. Her younger sister Violet was hot-headed, like Pops. This, however, wasn't a show of temper; it smelled like a grudge. And Aimee suspected that she was in the middle of it.

Violet lowered her visor and rose, waiting for the line change.

When the whistle came, she barrelled out onto the ice, lining up at centre ice for the face-off.

The York Lions player must have said something to Violet then; the puck dropped, Violet's gloves dropped and she took a swing at the Lions' player.

The crowd whooped in the stands; Violet Bodt-Kirschstein let loose, knocking her antagonist's helmet off and landing a punch to her face.

Aimee rose, frowning. "Shoot," she muttered.

The referee sounded his whistle repeatedly; the linesmen sandwiched themselves between the players.

Violet was moved away, in the direction of the boards, eyes blazing, mouth bloody and her captain's jersey torn.

"You stay the hell away from her!" Violet hollered. 

At 12:17, in the game's second period, Ryerson Rams captain Violet Bodt-Kirschstein was ejected from the game, drawing a major penalty for fighting.

Violet headed down the tunnel, middle finger held aloft in salute.

__________

Aimee found her sister in the locker room, alone.

"Dude," she said quietly, "What the hell?"

Violet held a wad of cheap brown paper towel to her lip. She removed it, looking at the blood stain pensively. It was shaped like Nova Scotia.

"Bitch," she assessed. Her eyes filled with tears. "Sorry, Aim."

She tossed her glove against the far wall. It made a smucking sound.

"Vi," Aimee slid down the bench toward her sister, "It's okay."

Violet looked sidelong at Aimee. Sweet, creative Aimee. She wore grey winter leggings, hunter boots and had a multicoloured scarf wrapped around her slender neck. She had Daddy's soft, brown eyes and dark hair, with the troublesome cowlick.

"I know where she lives," Violet said darkly.

"So?" Aimee said carefully. "Vi, people can sometimes be dicks, and she's a dick. It's that simple. I'm obviously not letting it bother me...so let it go, okay?"

It wasn't okay, though; not to Violet. Janine Boermann, the York player that Violet had fought with, had made unwanted advances toward Aimee the night before, at Quad Bar. Aimee had rebuffed her, politely enough, then Janine had become nasty, slagging Aimee and then posting a series of vicious tweets about Aimee, labelling her a stuck-up, frigid lesbian bitch. And worse.

It had made Violet's blood boil; Aimee was a senior; she was openly gay, caring, and the sweetest person that Violet knew. She hadn't deserved the cruel posts. The entire hockey team had seen them.

Violet, their captain, had settled the score.

"Okay?" Aimee was still speaking, "Vi, are you listening to me?"

Violet stretched out her long legs, studying her skates. She leaned her head back against the peeling cement wall and shut her eyes. Smiled slowly, smugly, like Pops.

"Fuck," she snickered softly, "She sure went down hard, didn't she?"

Aimee pressed her lips together. It wasn't funny. It was so awful. A dimpled smile wormed it's way free.

"Yeah. Like a bag of hammers."

__________

Violet Bodt-Kirschstein was suspended for six games. She found herself at a loose end, and often wandered into the University's photography department, to see what Aimee was up to.

Aimee was a Photo Journalism major. She had had two exhibits in the University gallery, and one down at Toronto's St. Lawrence Hall.

 She was most excited, however, about an upcoming exhibit at Red Door Supper Club, an out-of-the-way Moroccan Fusion restaurant in colourful Kensington Market.

 Aimee was a street-level photographer; she wandered the city on weekends, snapping candids, observing, reflecting.

 She'd already prepared a few images for the Red Door show when Jean, her Pops, had presented her with a large envelope. The envelope contained film negatives.

 "I found these of me and Daddy," he'd grinned. "In the summer of 1979."

 Aimee had accepted the envelope curiously, holding the negatives up to the kitchen light.

 "Pops," she'd breathed, "Seriously?"

 "Yep," Jean had nodded.

 "Can I...can we print these?"

 "That's why I gave 'em to you," he'd replied.

 __________

The darkroom was bathed in red-orange light, like heat from a coal.

Aimee worked with tongs, lifting her prints out of the developer and into the stop bath.

"Aimee?" Violet called, entering the darkroom.

"Over here."

Violet sauntered over to the developing station where Aimee worked.

"Wait," Aimee breathed excitedly, moving over so that Violet could peer down into the stop bath.

"It stinks in here," observed Violet.

Aimee laughed. "No worse than the reek from your hockey bag."

She jostled the print gently, keeping an eye on the timer.

"Watch, Vi..." she said.

She flipped the wet print over.

There he was...a young, angular man with a lopsided grin, a messy scrub of hair and mutton chops. He wore mirrored aviator shades and a Thrush Automotive t-shirt.

The sisters squealed, recognizing the younger incarnation of their Pops, Jean.

"Jesus," Violet grinned ear-to-ear. "Oh my God, look at Pops... _look at him!!_ He's a little badass!"

Aimee tilted her head, pleased with the black and white print. "He looks so young," she marvelled. "Like..he's a year younger than me, and a year older than you in this picture."

"He's got _swag_ ," Violet chuckled. "Look at him. Do you have any pictures of Daddy yet?"

Aimee reached up, plucking a print carefully from the drying rack.

It was a black and white print, showing Daddy Marco and Pops Jean, sitting on the tailgate of an old pickup truck, side by side. They were holding glass soda bottles. Daddy was looking down shyly, all dark hair and lashes, as Pops whispered something into his ear. Neither young man wore a shirt.

"Oh," Violet peered at the print, studying the intimate moment. "I don't know if it's beautiful, or gross....."

"Pretend they're not our parents," Aimee said, expression pensive.

"Then, it's beautiful," Violet said softly.

__________

**JUNE 1979**

_He's going to say it._

Marco Bodt took a bite of his bacon sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.

His parents sat at either end of the breakfast table; his dad, reading the sports pages and his mom doing the crossword.

Marco swallowed, the sandwich sticking in his throat a little. He picked up his juice glass and drank.

_He's going to say it. Now. He will put down his juice glass and say...._

"I...uh...I won't be home for dinner, Mom."

His mom glanced up. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I'm going to a thing for my fencing club. An end-of-the-year thing."

"Mmm, that sounds nice," his mom smiled. She wore lipstick, in the latest coral shade. "Where is it, honey?"

Heat pricked Marco's face. _What did she mean, 'Where is it?'_

"Downtown. A few of us are going downtown."

He crunched his toes up, inside of his canvas sneakers. "So...I mean, do you and dad have plans? And if not...could I maybe borrow the car?"

Marco's dad, a heavyset man with the same kind, brown eyes as his son, looked up. "Do we have plans?" he asked his wife.

"We're just going across the road."

"We are?"

"For fondue, Arthur. At the Graff's. Remember?"

Marco's dad winced.

"We promised." Marco's mom's tone was level, and final. "Marco, you can take the car, please be careful."

"Okay," he smiled mechanically, stomach clenching. "Thanks."

__________

Marco Bodt was twenty, and in his third year of Commerce at the University of Toronto. He enjoyed school...more to the point, he enjoyed the freedom, the culture, and the laminated cafeteria pass that had allowed him access to an unending stream of onion rings, fries with gravy and pancakes. By the middle of his second year, he's packed thirty pounds onto his solid frame.

When his shirts began to fit a tad snugly, like coloured sausage skins, Marco had resolved to take up an activity. He wasn't really one for contact sports, but he enjoyed people and eschewed solitary forms of exercise, such as cross-country running.

He'd considered tennis, but the sleek, blond boys with their toned legs intimidated him.

A history buff, he'd eventually joined the fencing club. Fencing offered a combination of disciplines which appealed to Marco; self-discipline, focus, strategy and skill. He was not much of a swordsman at first; lacking finesse and seeming not to know where his limbs ended, but his club mates were so encouraging that he'd kept at it.

Admittedly, he would never make the University's competitive team, but he attended every practice and tournament, helping out in any way he could.

Then, out of the blue, Robin Langley-Reese had appeared.

Robin was a British exchange student, and he'd come to Canada to study. He was athletic, flamboyant, and the first openly-gay man Marco had met. For the first time, Marco felt less alone.

Robin had honey-brown hair, that brushed his collar. He wore mod clothes; pegged jeans and skinny ties. To the U. of T. Fencing Club, he was a demi-god; he'd represented Britain in international fencing competition, in the Under 18 Division.

Rather than having airs and fancying himself, Robin was delighted to share his passion for fencing with all who showed interest. His postures and forms were precise, and crisp. He had, Marco couldn't help noticing, a taut ass and and a nice curve to his spine.

Robin had taken a liking to the affable Marco immediately. He spent extra time with his teammate, working in the mirror to fine-tune Marco's postures and skills.

One afternoon, Robin had brought in a newspaper clipping, showing his former British fencing team. They'd taken a silver medal in Euro Competition.

"There," he'd said easily. "See that tall lad? That's Ainsley. My ex-boyfriend. He came first in foils."

There were many things that Robin said which confused Marco. He called french fries, chips. He called potato chips, crisps. He called cookies, biscuits. But the term 'boyfriend', Marco understood perfectly well.

One evening, he and Robin had stayed late, to practise. When the sun had begun to slant low and orange through the gym windows, they'd halted their exercise. They had begun packing up their gear, Robin towelling off his face and arms.

"Brilliant," he'd noted. "You're coming along well."

Marco had flushed beneath his freckles. "Thanks. I....really, thank you. You know...for spending so much time working with us. We've learned a ton from you..."

"Cheers," Robin said, and then, as easily as if he were inquiring about the weather, "So, d'you see anyone?"

"Huh?"

"Have you got a steady? A bloke?"

Marco froze, water bottle suspended halfway to his lips.

Robin smiled ruefully. "Sorry," he said, not unkindly. "You're gay though, yes?"

Marco sat down slowly on the bottom row of bleachers. "I...." he said slowly, "I ...."

Robin sat down. "I understand. Your privacy is important."

"Yeah." the word barely made a sound.

"Still, maybe you'd like to have a meal?"

Marco looked up. Swallowed. "I...yes. Yes, I would like that. But," he smiled, "I want to pay. To say thanks for all the extra help. My treat."

"Fantastic. It's a date. And I think I know the very place. Downtown. The Red Door Supper Club."

__________

And thus it was, on an early summer Saturday evening, Marco Bodt sat on his bed, in his room in his parents house, sweaty palms gripping his knees, about to combust.

His mom and dad thought he was going to a Fencing Club meeting. In fact, he was preparing for his first date with another guy.

It was both an enormous relief and singularly terrifying.

He rose, walked to the sliding, wood-panelled closet and slid the door open. There. He'd wear the blue shirt. He removed it from the wire hanger, and shrugged into it. He fumbled with the buttons, finding to his utter dismay that when he buttoned the shirt over his tummy, the button strained to close.

"Shit," he whimpered. "Shit. I _love_ this shirt..." He'd shed some weight over the past year, but was not as slim as he'd been at the end of high school.

"I'm fat," he whispered, pushing on his tummy. He sat, feeling suddenly dizzy and utterly miserable. What would happen if he didn't go? It would be unbelievably rude. But - and this realization cut more deeply - he would be arresting the momentum he was building. A slow arc toward authenticity.

He was gay. And he wasn't going to be a miserable, anxious, lonely gay, living a lie in order to appease other people. He was opening up, slowly, turning his petals toward the sun.

"This is so hard," he told the too-small blue shirt. "Why is this so fucking frightening?""

He reached into the closet again, pulling out another shirt, with a colourful paisley pattern.

"It's too much." He put it on anyway.

Then, he combed his hair, trying to marshal it into a side part, with his fringe sweeping across his forehead. No matter how he tried, the stubborn cowlick in the middle of his forehead split his hair at centre.

He wandered into the bathroom, helping himself to a dollop of his dad's pomade. He pulled his hair through his sticky fingers, then combed it firmly into place.

He made his way downstairs, plucking the station wagon keys off of the hook in the hall. There was a flower arrangement on the table. On impulse, he plucked the head off a pink carnation, and stuck it in his lapel.

__________

Despite Robin's directions, Marco could not find the Red Door Supper Club.

"It's in Kensington Market," Robin said. "It's just off Augusta Street, you enter from the back alley. It's got a wee garden patio and a wonderful diner-style counter."

Marco had driven past it twice, cars honking angrily as he slowed, vainly looking for the telltale red door. He'd finally parked. It would be easier to find on foot.

He reached into the pocket of his jeans, for his wallet. And froze, horrified. No....oh, no....

He'd left his wallet on the hall table at home.

With a furious cry, he slumped in the car seat. "Damn it!"

Frustrated tears pricked his eyes. He drew a breath then, looking around the interior of his dad's station wagon. He pulled down the sun visor. Bingo. There was his father's racing form, hidden from his mother. A ten dollar bill was folded inside, all ready for the offtrack betting shop.

Marco shoved the money into his pocket, and ferreted around the car, scrounging for change. His search turned up another dollar and seventy-five cents in change. in change. Eleven seventy-five should buy Robin and himself dinner. Okay. It would be okay.

__________ 

The supper club had, predictably, a red door. It shared the narrow street with a bead boutique, a head shoppe and the back door of a cheese-and-egg market; a mashup typical of Kensington Market.

Smoothing his hair and taking a breath, Marco pulled open the red door and entered.

The interior of the diner was long and narrow, and divided vertically by a low wall. On the left side of the wall were two rows of booths. Toward the back were a few larger tables. On the right side of the dividing wall was a long, gleaming melamine lunch counter with a row of stuffed vinyl swivel-stools, like Alice's mushrooms.

What struck Marco was the riot of bright colour; red and yellow walls, coloured-glass pendant lamps, curious, shiny-bright knick-knacks that a crow would covet.

Fifteen or so patrons were scattered about; some at tables and some chatting at the lunch counter. Marco glanced around nervously, but did not see Robin's pale head. It appeared he was first to arrive. He bit his lip.

"Good day!"

Marco jumped a little, looking up to see a thickset, dark-haired man in a white apron addressing him. The man stood behind the lunch counter, nodding at him.

"Coffee?"

"Uh...I'm actually meeting a....a friend for dinner, thanks."

The man nodded. "Good, good. Sit anywhere you want. Welcome."

Marco thought about sitting at the lunch counter, but opted instead to sit on the other side of the room, in one of the cozy booths.

He took a deep breath and exhaled. The diner was charming; far from the staid white linens or sanitized, themed buffets that his family frequented. Behind the lunch counter was a cutaway pass-through into the kitchen, through which smells both familiar and exotic, wafted; fresh coffee, grilled burgers, aromatic spices.

A doorway led from the kitchen to the area behind the lunch counter; this was covered with a beaded curtain which spattered with each entrance or exit.

Marco opened the menu and began to read. He noted the prices, and chewed at his lip nervously. The food was not cheap; he'd probably have to have a soup or some fries, if he expected to have enough to pay for Robin's dinner. Shoot. He winced again at his own stupidity.

A server came by then, a dark-haired, statuesque girl with a serious, fine-featured face. "Hi," she greeted him softly.

Without any more preeamble, she set about placing a small, ornate tea service onto his table.

"Oh," Marco looked up, "I'm sorry, I didn't order any tea."

"Tea is for everyone," her voice was soothing. "It is Moroccan tea, try it."

Marco smiled at her.

Feeling both cultured and comfy, Marco settled in to wait for Robin. He picked up the small, bright ceramic bowl, and drank. The hot, sweet tea tasted of mint.

He glanced around. To his immediate left, at the booth adjacent, sat what must have been a student. He was diminutive, with chin-length hair the colour of new hay. On the table in front of him were two text books, and a third was propped against these. He wore a striped, collared polo shirt and canvas sneakers.

Marco watched the student sidelong. He scratched notes onto a pad, lips working. At one point, the student raised his head, reaching toward a plate of french fries on his table. He lined up five of them, carefully, like fallen soldiers. He picked up one, considered it, then dipped it to give it a ketchup helmet. He popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He did the same with a second fry, and then a third.

Marco found himself smiling. "Hi," he said, before he could stop himself. "What's good here?"

The student blinked owlishly, aware of Marco's presence for the first time. He didn't say anything.

Marco was instantly sorry for interrupting his train of thought. His smile wavered, and he looked down, embarrassed.

"Onion rings," said a bright voice after a long moment. "The onion rings are very good. Moroccan burgers. Or the meatballs. Meatballs, with chickpeas and couscous. Eren does good couscous."

Marco looked up, and into a pair of round blue eyes, bright as gym paint. He nodded. "Thanks..." and then, emboldened: "Finals?"

"Ugh, yeah. Yes. Tomorrow. A written and a practical, and I am not prepared."

"I have two left," Marco noted. "I'm in Commerce at U. of T."

"Huh," the student nodded. "Mechanical Engineering. U. of T. as well."

"Cool!" 

This was greeted with a small snort.

"I'm Marco," Marco reached a hand across the aisle separating the tables.

"Yeah. Armin." The student reached over and shook his hand.

Marco returned his attention to his tea. He began watching the door nervously. He'd been here twenty minutes, now. He bit his lip. Robin was late.

"Jeanbo!" the big, moustached man behind the lunch counter was barking at someone. "Where's my cold? How much long?"

Marco looked at Armin, but the blond head was bent again, tackling another sample problem. He felt a twinge, realizing he'd sipped a little too much tea and needed the restroom. He stood, and wandered toward the back of the diner. 'Washrooms' a sign indicated.

Marco walked to the end of the lunch counter. Here, a stainless steel door was open, exposing the contents of a large, walk-in fridge. On the floor lay an individual; head behind a large compressor unit, tools scattered about on the floor. A pair of long legs protruded, clad in blue workman's pants, and terminating in scuffed tan work boots.

Marco used the bathroom, and made his way back. The person was gone, although the fridge door was still open.

He returned to his seat. smoothing his hands over his paisley-printed shirt. He'd begun to perspire a little. Perhaps Robin had decided not to come, after all. Marco sighed. What was he doing here, downtown in the market, in a quirky cafe, meeting another guy for a date? What would his mother say?

He swallowed hard, feeling alone, and alien.

"It's not the belt," A deep voice announced.

Marco looked up. The pair of blue workman's legs that he'd seen lying in the walk-in freezer belonged to a young man, and this young man had poured himself sideways into Armin's booth. He wore a blue work shirt as well, which sported an embroidered patch. _'Jean'_ it read, and in tiny block letters beneath, _'Can I help you keep your cool?'_

"I know it's not the belt," Armin said evenly, without looking up. "If it had been the belt, it would have made a _whick-whick-whick_ sound. This was more like, _'squee-squee-squee-squee'"_

The repairman, Jean, peeked over the divider wall, to where the large owner of the diner was parked behind the counter.

"Armin, I gotta fix the walk-in fridge. Sultan will turn me into stew if I can't."

"You can fix it," Armin said equably. "It's probably the pressure valve."

"Can't you come look?"

"Jean, I have to study. My final is tomorrow. Just use process of elimination. You're done repairs like this with Lomax a hundred times."

"I can't fix it without Lomax, and Lomax is sick and I'm here by myself," Jean hissed. "Please?"

Amin compressed his lips, tearing a page out of his pad. He sketched something quickly. "Look. Here. Inside the compressor. This valve. You patched the freon leak, right? There's still no pressure? It's probably this..."

The repairman was young, probably close to Marco's own age. His voice was deeper, with a bit of a rasp that licked at Marco's insides pleasantly. He turned to look at Marco then; a scrub of sandy hair; tapered, hazel eyes and an aquiline, chiseled face.

Marco blinked.

The repairman, Jean, grinned then, a lopsided affair which involved the quirking of one arched eyebrow.

He levered himself out of Armin's booth, and slid in opposite Marco, still holding the rubber belt from the walk-in freezer.

"Hey there," he said, "What's your name?"

Marco bit his lip.

"Don't lie," the hazel eyes danced. "I'll know if you do."

"Marco," said Marco. It sounded like cardboard.

"Marco," Jean nodded. "What're we having tonight?"

"I...I, well...I'm waiting for my...for a...."

Jean turned back to Armin. "Marco here, has a date," he said to Armin.

"Stop it," Armin admonished, without looking up.

"Marco is meeting...a young lady?" Jean studied the sweet, freckled face. "Ah. Nope. A young man. Marco has a date with a young man."

Armin flipped his sharp pencil around, fisting it like a harpoon. "Go away," he looked up at Jean crossly, "or I'll tell Sultan that you can't fix his fridge and I'll stop helping you."

"Nice to meet you, Marco," Jean grinned. "that shirt's a wee bit much, son...."

He vaulted out of the booth, snatched up Armin's sketch and headed back to the fridge.

Marco caught his breath; he should have been affronted by the overly-forward stranger, but he wasn't. His cheeks glowed, and his belly felt thick, and tangled.

Robin was thirty minutes late, Marco realized then. And he found he wasn't overly bothered by this fact.

 


	2. Thrush

Aimee and Violet did laundry on Wednesday nights. They sat in their parents' bedroom, cross-legged and facing one another on the bed, with a mountain of socks between them.

The sisters picked through the pile, matching up the socks and sorting them into four piles.

Aimee held up a lone grey sock, with a green band at the top.

"Pops." said Violet. "It's a work sock."

Aimee fished out another thick sock. "Is this Daddy's?"

"No, mine."

Violet pulled out a long, white thigh stocking, patterned with kitties and fish. She snorted, tossing the sock at her sister. "Pfff."

Violet uncrossed her legs, scooped up an armful of Jean's socks and opened the top drawer of his dresser.

"Aim," she said softly, "Look."

Aimee raised her head. Violet had lifted a garment out of the drawer; an ancient, butter-soft t-shirt. It was grey, with a Thrush Automotive logo on the front, now peeling and faded.

"Remember this?" Violet asked.

"Vi," Aimee chastised, a tad protectively, "Don't go through his stuff."

"I'm not. I just...know that this is here. Do you remember it, though?"

"Yeah."

Violet lifted it to her face. It smelled like Daddy Marco.

"One time Daddy tried to put it in the rag bucket and Pops went berserk."

Violet pulled the shirt out, looking down at it thoughtfully. Her hair, long and wavy, was sandy like Pops', and dyed at the ends, foamy blue-green like a mermaid.

"What's your first memory of this shirt?"

Aimee lay down on the bed, head propped on one elbow.

"Oh, man, I dunno....It was swimming. At Willow Beach. I guess I was six? I was on the pier and Pops was in the water, and he was wearing it. He wanted me to jump in and like, I just _wouldn't._ I remember standing on the end of the pier in my lifejacket and he stood there in the water - it was chest-deep - and he just waited. And encouraged me. When I finally jumped, and surfaced, the fear went away. I started dog-paddling for shore - it was maybe two-hundred metres but it looked like a mile. Pops walked backward, in front of me, with his arms held out. I remember swimming and swimming, toward the angry thrush on his chest...and it kept moving back, and I was so determined to make it to shore by myself...I wasn't brave, like you...but that day, I was. I kept gasping like: _'don't help me! don't touch me!'."_

Aimee sat up, hugging her narrow torso. "That was the first time I really felt like I achieved something big."

"Huh."

Aimee looked up. "What about you?"

"I threw up green cough syrup all over Daddy. He was wearing it, not Pops."

__________

**JUNE, 1979**

"Jean,"

No response.

"Jean!"

Jean Kirschstein stood in Eren's kitchen at the Red Door Supper Club, peering through the beaded curtain, out into the dining room.

"Jean," Eren folded his arms across his chest impatiently, "Raj and I have moved out all the dairy, all the meat. You can get going on the fridge, now."

Jean did not look at Eren, Sultan's nephew, who was the cook at the Supper Club. Rather, he peered through the red and orange translucent beads at the young man seated alone, in a booth against the far wall.

He watched as the guy peered anxiously around the room. He was twenty, maybe twenty-one if Jean guessed correctly. Fair-skinned, freckled, with dark eyes and hair. He had a pleasing huskiness to him that Jean found immensely attractive; thick shoulders and thighs.

He wore a loud, paisley-patterned shirt, which he smoothed and tugged at with a painful self-awareness. He reached up to smooth his hair. Picked a knife up off of the table and practice-smiled into it's reflective surface.

He also wore, in his top buttonhole, a single, pink carnation. Jean Kirschstein found this to be a singular act of extraordinary courage.

 _"Jean!!!"_ A sting, as he was beaned in the head with a water chestnut. Eren was scowling at him. "It's going to get really, _really_ busy later! Tick-tock!"

"Yeah, Eren. No worries, bro, it's cool."

Jean's tapered, hazel eyes narrowed, and his long mouth turned up at the corners. He'd decided, entirely on impulse, that the young, dark-eyed man would be spending the evening with him, and not with whomever he was waiting for.

Ah. The guy was engaging Armin in conversation, and Armin was trying to study. Well, good luck with that. Armin was Jean's closest friend, but socially unpredictable.

Jean let the curtain fall with a splat and went to find his tools.

__________

Jean was somewhat flummoxed to discover that the issue with the fridge had nothing to do with the fan belt. He'd never worked on an install of this size without Lomax, and with the supper crowd due in a couple of hours, and Sultan breathing down his neck, he was running out of time. He'd sauntered out into the dining room, pouring himself into Armin's booth. Armin would know what to do.

He watched the freckled boy sidelong, while simultaneously antagonizing Armin. _Oh, he was lovely. Lush dark lashes, bow-lips. And a sincere, open face, like a prairie morning._

Armin was hissing something at Jean.

Jean moved then, and sat across from the young man. After a moment's hesitation, Jean was rewarded with a curious smile.

Marco, he was called.

"Marco. And...." Jean tilted his head, "who're we waiting for, Marco?"

"Robin Langley-Reese."

Jean had arched an eyebrow. "Well," he'd swept out of the booth, "I hope Robin Fancy-Buttons finds the couscous acceptable!"

"You're a profound _dick_ ," Armin had muttered after him.

Shortly thereafter, the server had come by Marco's table, bearing a strawberry milkshake. It had a skewer sticking out of it, with whole strawberries and cherries on it.

"Oh," Marco had tried to wave her off, "Sorry, that's not mine..."

"Jean bought it," the server said flatly. "That guy. The fridge guy." She sighed, passing Marco a note, scribbled on a torn-off work order.

 _To keep you busy until Robin Peacock Bobbynuts turns up_ , it read.

Marco had flushed then, as red as the cherries.

_________

"Marco?"

Marco's head shot up, in alarm. Oh, no. The large, mustachioed man behind the lunch counter was holding a phone receiver against his shoulder, and calling out loudly: "Marco? Is there a Marco?"

Marco glanced around, in the vain hope that there might be another Marco on the premises. He rose, holding up a hand.

"I'm uh...I'm Marco," he walked over to the counter.

"Ok." the man that Armin had called Sultan, held out the phone receiver. The cord stretched across the lunch counter. "Here. Phone is for you."

Marco accepted the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hey, Marco, mate. It's Robin."

"Hi," Marco responded. "Is everything okay?"

"Ah. See that's the thing. Listen, you won't bloody believe this, but Ainsley's turned up. Just an hour ago. I'd no idea he was coming, and he's bobbed up at my doorstep. He's come from England."

"Ainsley?...Your ex, Ainsley?"

A small sigh. "My...my whatever-he-is. Honestly mate, I'm gutted to leave you hanging. I'm really, truly sorry...."

"Oh." Robin wasn't coming. It sank in. Marco stood, in the middle of the Red Door Supper Club, wearing a too-loud shirt while his very first male dinner date ever, cancelled on him.

"Oh," he managed again.

"We'll see you at Fencing Club then?" Robin was asking him.

"Yeah," Marco said quietly. "Sure. At Club, then."

The line went dead. Sultan was at the other end of the lunch counter, attending to a customer. Marco was stranded, holding the phone receiver, stretched over the counter. He felt as though everyone was looking at him as he stood there getting dumped over the phone for someone called Ainsley. His throat tightened.

The dark-haired waitress, a young Asian woman, took pity on him and walked over to accept the receiver.

Marco walked back to his table and sat down. He felt numb, sweaty and huge. He just wanted to go home. He took the pink carnation out of his buttonhole, and put it on the table. What a silly thing to have worn, in any case.

He looked up then. Through the beaded kitchen curtain strode a guy wearing chef's whites and loose, checked pants. He had light brown skin, like Sultan. He carried a plate of food, and was headed toward Marco. He stopped, not at Marco's table, but at Armin's.

"Hey," the cook said softly to Armin, who scribbled obliviously, head down.

"Uh?"

The cook placed the plate onto the table, beside the stack of textbooks.

"You can't only eat fries all day," he chided. His tone was soft, coaxing.

Armin blinked. On the little plate was a row of five meatballs, skewered with toothpicks. Then five pieces of cheese. And five chunks of fruit. All in orderly lines.

 _They must be close_ , Marco decided. Armin had eaten his french fries in sets of five, at certain intervals. He seemed a little quirky about his food, and the cook had prepared this study-snack especially for him.

Then, under the soft light of the glass lamp, the chef reached out a hand, slid it beneath the curtain of blond hair, and stroked Armin's cheek.

"Eat what I made," he said softly. "Please, babe." He bent forward then, toward Armin, and kissed his mouth gently. And then again.

Marco gasped, in surprise, and politely averted his eyes. It was the first time he'd seen two men display affection so openly, so easily. It flooded his heart with a warmth he could barely contain.

Eren, the cook, looked up then, nodding at Marco. "Hiya," he said. "I'm Eren. Welcome."

"I'm Marco," Marco stammered..."My uh...my friend....my date just cancelled..."

"Sorry," Eren said. "Look, if you're hungry stay and have a quick bite, at least. I cook fusion."

Marco smiled.

"Jean!" Sultan bellowed again, toward the direction of the fridge, _"Jean, where in hells is my cold?"_

Marco watched as Jean, holding a metal part, strode the length of the lunch counter and made a call. He surveyed the room, the phone receiver jammed against his shoulder.

When the conversation had concluded, he hung up, walked over to Marco's table, and sat down.

"So," he said, not unkindly, "No Robin Winchester Rifle?"

Marco shook his head.

Carefully, Jean plucked the pink carnation off of the table, twirled it in his long fingers and stuck it saucily behind his ear.

Without a word, he got up, and disappeared into the back.

"Maybe," Marco thought, "Maybe I will have a bit of dinner. After all, I'm here..."

Armin was counting the meatballs. Five. The cheese. Five. He smiled happily.

"So," Marco ventured, "that's..."

"Oh, my Eren," Armin replied easily. "He's Sultan's nephew. He cooks here and he's studying at George Brown. To be a chef. He lives upstairs. So do I, half the time."

"I've...I'm....I also...." Marco tried to marshal his words into a sentence.

"Yeah," Armin nodded, and went back to his scratchpad.

__________

Marco's eyes fixed on his menu, however the text swam in a warm haze as he indulged himself in replaying the moment when the cook had kissed his student boyfriend. His skin tingled pleasantly.

What was good to eat here? What had Armin said - onion rings?

"Where's the shutoff?" Jean was leaning over Armin's booth, chewing his lip nervously. He still sported Marco's carnation behind his ear.

When Armin didn't respond, Jean reached a long arm over the wall and swiped Armin's calculator.

"Hey!" Armin growled.

"Armin, where's the shutoff? Just for the fridge and the fryer? The breaker?"

"What do I look like to you?"

Jean loped around the wall and stood between Marco's table and Armin's. "C'mon."

"Ask Eren."

"I told Eren I'd look after it. He has dinner rush starting. And no fridge."

"Gimme my calculator."

Jean held the instrument up, as Armin glowered at him.

"C'mon!" Armin popped out of the booth, Jean stepped to the side and his toolbelt clipped Marco's strawberry milkshake, splashing the contents all over his paisley shirt.

"Dope!" Armin snapped.

Jean twisted around, taking in the sight of the freckled newcomer, shirt splashed pink.

"Aw, nuts," he said.

"Now that's done it," Armin frowned crossly. "Marco, we're so sorry..."

Marco looked down at his ruined shirt, flustered. "Don't worry. Don't...I'll just go home. I was going to go, my date isn't coming, so I'll just go. My dad lent me the station wagon anyway..."

Marco stood clumsily, upsetting his ceramic tea bowl onto the table, in addition to the milkshake. His cheeks flushed crimson beneath the freckles.

Jean laughed. "Oh, man..."

Marco attempted to mop up the puddle of tea with his napkin. His hand shook.

Jean reached out, taking hold of his wrist gently.

Marco glanced up. Jean was no longer laughing. "C'mon," he said softly.

Marco stood, rooted to the spot. "C'mon," Jean repeated. "I'll fix you up."

He took Marco's hand, led him to the back, past the fridge and out a side door to a parked van.

 _Lomax Heating and Refrigeration_ , it read.

Without letting go of Marco's hand, Jean swung open the side door, revealing a jumble of equipment, lunch coolers, and a canvas bag.

He turned then, looking at Marco. His smirk had vanished, replaced by a sincere, contrite expression.

"Look," he said quietly. "I don't want you to leave here thinking that having a...a _date_ here was a bad idea and that we're awful. We're not, really..."

Jean reached forward, popping open the top button of the soaked paisley shirt. "I've got another shirt. It's not much, but it's dry. How's about you take a ride with me to pick up a new part, and then, if it's all the same to you, how's about we eat dinner together? You can pretend I'm Robin Horsefeathers."

Jean rummaged into his bag, pulling out a Thrush Automotive t-shirt. He tossed it to Marco. "Here," he said. "Sorry if it's a bit ripe."

Marco stood stock still, agonizing over whether or not to strip in front of Jean. But Jean had disappeared around the other side of the van, opened the driver's door and began rummaging in the van's centre console.

Marco peeled off his shirt, dropped it at his feet and wriggled into the Thrush t-shirt.

Discreetly, Jean watched Marco in the rear-view mirror; noted the broad shoulders, dusted with more freckles, the sturdiness of his build.

He exited, scooping up the paisley shirt. "Here," he said. "We'll give it a soak. Maybe we can save it."

"D'you really think it's an awful shirt?"

"It's horrible." 

Behind Jean, Marco grinned. The Thrush automotive t-shirt had Jean's smell clinging to it: musk and sunscreen.

__________

The van was stopped at a streetlight. They were driving from Kensington Market, west on Bloor Street, to Lomax Heating and Refrigeration.

The light turned green. Jean didn't accelerate; rather, he stared blankly ahead, jaw set. A honk from the vehicle behind stirred him, and he began to drive.

"So," Marco watched him curiously, "Your name is Jean. You love to tease. What else?"

Jean turned to look at Marco, hazel eyes lost. "I...I, literally have _no fucking idea_ what I'm doing with this fridge. I've never done a repair job on my own...I dunno if I can fix this." he swallowed.

Marco nodded, thinking of learning to fence. "Yeah. I get it. I don't love being out of my depth, either."

Jean sighed.

"I can try and help..." Marco ventured.

"Man," Jean stuck an arm out of the open van window, "you just came in for dinner and now look..."

Marco glanced at Jean. The young tradesman was different from the scrubbed college boys he knew at school. He'd opened his blue work shirt to catch the breeze, and Marco noted a dusting of fine brown hairs where the fabric parted in a vee.

"So how d'you know Armin?" he ventured.

A bright smile. "Armin Arlert! Our Armin is the best sort of people there is," Jean declared. "He's the smartest person I know. He'd give his left nut for you, too. Loyal. We're tight. Don't be fooled by seeing me wind him up. I wind everybody up."

"And the cook?"

"Eren?"

"I-I mean, I...." Marco shut his mouth then, realizing that his curiosity was getting the better of him.

"I know what you mean," Jean said very carefully, "You want to know, in what kind of place does a boy give another boy a kiss like that. Not a transient, back-alley grope...but a sweet kiss, something kind, and loving."

Marco crossed his arms across his middle, and stared out of the windshield.

"Sultan's place...well, it's someplace people can socialize, in peace. Two guys. Two women. Or whatever. Just a place to have a bite, to visit. Someplace that's...that's safe."

"I see..."

"And if you come back...and I hope you do...and if you maybe see someone you happen to know in there, from your school or someplace...just remember that they've come here, same as you, just to socialize a bit. Discreetly...Understand?"

"I get it."

"Sultan hasn't had an easy life, neither has Eren. Sultan and Armin's grandpa are friends. They go back. And my boss, Lomax Green, he goes way back with them, too. So Armin and Eren, and Eren's cousin - the dark-haired girl that served you, Mikasa - they've been tight since they were little."

Jean paused, reflecting.

"Sultan's helped a lot of us out, over the years. Myself included...I've got good friends there. More than a few."

__________

Jean and Marco returned to the Red Door Supper Club to find that Armin had shut off the breaker to the fridge, unscrewed the housing and stripped off the cracked valve.

Jean wasted no time connecting the replacement valve, cleaning up and turning the fridge back on. The motor engaged, smoothly, and the temperature began to drop.

"Thank _fuck_ ," he exhaled. "Jesus Armin, I think I can finally take a piss now. What a relief."

"Yep," Armin nodded.

__________

Sultan lit candles on the tables, turning down the house lights. The Supper Club glowed, pools of soft colour, red and orange and purple.

Jean had stowed away his tools, given his hands and face a scrub, and returned to the table.

He sat across from Marco, sharing a plate of Moroccan finger foods that Eren had prepared.

Armin had, with a satisfied grunt, finally shut his textbooks and now sat over at the lunch counter, chatting with a red-haired girl and her girlfriend.

"Beer?" Jean offered.

"Sure," Marco nodded. "One. I'm driving."

One had turned into four. In the back of his mind, Marco wondered how, exactly, he was going to get home. He didn't care. Jean was asking him questions...about fencing, about his family, about his life, his feelings. His fears. Jean listened, rapt, his eyes searching out Marco's often.

The red-haired girl that Armin had been talking to put some coins into the jukebox near the back of the room; motown, soul, funk...

Marco was suffused with warmth. Whether it was the beer, the strange-tasting shots that Eren had poured, or the music, Marco sat back, and smiled.

"Did you enjoy dinner?" Jean leaned forward, on his elbows.

"Oh, yeah..."

"Dance with me?"

Marco blinked. The dim, orangey-red light scribed the angular planes of Jean's face. He was handsome, cavalier, and he wanted to dance with Marco.

"Huh?"

"Dance with me. C'mon. Everyone's dancing."

Marco regarded Jean quietly.

"What," Jean quirked an eyebrow. "Can't dance?"

"I can so," Marco corrected him, buzzed pleasantly, "I'll have you know, I'm quite good. I dance at the Country Club all the time."

"Oh, pardon me!" Jean grinned. "No excuses, then."

A slow song began then; Smoky Robinson.

Jean stood, holding out a hand. "C'mon."

He led Marco into the crowd. There were other dancers on the floor; male couples, female couples, and groups of friends.

Marco froze, unsure of where to put his hands, or indeed, what to do with the tall young man in front of him. He laughed.

"So, who's leading?" Jean teased.

Marco stepped closer, a tentative hand landing on Jean's shoulder. He placed his cheek next to Jean's.

"You," he breathed. "You....you lead. I'll follow. I'll just..."

He was pulled very close. His heart slammed in his chest, and he shivered. _Was everyone looking at them?_

No. No one was. Sultan leaned on his lunch counter, gesturing animatedly, telling a story to two girls that sat on the vinyl stools, their hands casually linked.

Dinner rush finished, Eren stood in the propped-open doorway leading from the kitchen to the side alley, tired but contented. He held Armin in front of him, chin resting on top of the pale head, and rocked to the music.

"This's just fine," Jean's voice, deep and raspy against his neck. "This'll do just fine. I've got you. Just lean into me a little...just like that..."

Marco was shaking. He stumbled, stepping on Jean's foot. Jean wrapped both arms around him, steadying him.

"You want me to let go?" the voice in his ear, the soft breath against his neck, raising the hairs.

"No."

"I won't, then." Jean began to sway, "There, we've got it, now..."

Marco leaned into the supportive embrace and closed his eyes. It was completely backward, and utterly perfect.

He took a slow, deep breath, tension easing, and followed Jean's rhythm. Jean moved smoothly, guiding Marco with a strong arm behind his back, and the motion of his hips.

"We fit together nice," Jean murmured.

Marco lost himself in the dance, pliant in Jean's embrace. Jean's arm drifted across his lower back, the tips of his fingers sliding into the rear pocket of Marco's jeans.

"Okay?" Jean whispered into his ear.

"Very okay..." In answer, Marco edged his hips forward, the friction sparking pleasure that pulled a small sound out of Jean.

He raised his head, looking at Jean. Half-closed eyelids, and a soft smile. The fingertips in his back pocket squeezed playfully.

"Why," Jean asked slowly, "Why is your nose so close to my nose?"

Marco snickered. He inched his face forward, bumping Jean's nose with his own.

"Why is your nose on my nose?"

Jean nuzzled softly. "What're you after? What d'you want? This?"

His parted lips, soft and seeking, brushed against Marco's mouth. A gentle, heated kiss.

"Sweet," Jean whispered, nuzzling against Marco's neck.

Jean smiled to himself in the dark. _So very, very sweet._

 


	3. Ymir

**2015**

Violet Bodt-Kirschstein leaned against _her_ fridge in the showroom at Chill, the upscale renovation and appliance business that her family owned.

The fridge was apartment-sized, with a digital thermostat and an ice-dispenser. It was state-of-the-art, but housed in a retro, 1950's style cabinet, pastel purple with a chrome grill.

Uncle Armin had designed it, especially for her. Violet would glare daggers at any customer browsing the showroom who showed excessive interest in _her_ fridge.

She thumbed the handle, opened it and closed it.

Chill Design Centre was located on Dupont Street, in an industrial building which had formerly belonged to Lomax Heating and Air Conditioning. It consisted of three linked units; a showroom, a decor studio, and a central office which linked the two spaces. The office held Armin's design station, Daddy Marco's glassed-in office, and a hodgepodge corner of clutter - appliance parts, ancient filing cabinets spewing papers, particle-board panels studded with tools, baby-food jars full of screws and bolts, and a workbench. Pop Jean called this "The President's Office."

Violet wove her way through the showroom, and opened the door to the central office. From here, she could look through one-way glass into the showroom on one side, and into the decor studio on the other.

Armin Arlert was at his drafting board; an expanse of green Borco with a massive walnut base. He sat on a stool, legs crossed, blond hair collected neatly into an elastic band, through which was jabbed a pencil. One lone strand hung down as he worked, catching the light from his drafting lamp.

On a table beside him was a small wicker cup containing five sharpened 2B pencils. Beside it, an identical cup held five rapidograph pens.

Violet watched him for a moment: small, precise.

She cleared her throat. "Hey."

"Hi, Violence," Armin greeted her.

She pulled up a stool beside him. "What're you working on?"

"A fridge-cabinet, styled like an ice-box from the thirties," Armin said brightly.

On the drafting board in front of him was mounted a large piece of vellum. Armin was working on a scale-drawing of his latest appliance design.

"Huh. Cool." Violet sat beside him on her stool, spinning idly. She leaned on a corner of the drafting board, studying Armin's elfin profile in the harsh light. He had a curved forehead, and a small, turned-up nose. To Violet's mind, his prettiness was just perfect. She wanted to meet a boy her age that had the same prettiness, the same serene practicality as her godfather.

She fingered one of the five precisely-sharpened pencils in the wicker cup.

"I see you."

She smiled; Jean's outlaw grin.

"Don't touch them."

"I have to prepare a statement," she told him. "Regarding my conduct during the York game."

Armin grabbed a protractor, scribing a flawless arc onto his drawing.

"Why don't you just do that in CAD?" Violet asked, eyeing Armin's design station and monitors.

"I do almost everything digitally," Armin glanced up at her. "but sometimes....well, sometimes we just ought to slow things down. We need to give the gods a few drops of blood."

"CAD's so much faster, though."

"I miss the ink smell." Armin looked up then, noting Violet's black eye.

"Jesus, Violence. That's some shiner."

Violet smiled. "I know!"

"To whom do you have to give this statement?"

"Dean of Athletics. I have to apologize for my conduct."

"I see."

Violet touched a fingertip to a row of gum erasers. "Only, I'm not sorry. Obviously. There's nothing I would have done differently. Janis was aggressive with Aimee, and that aggression escalated into bullying. And now...since the on-ice fight, everyone is talking about harassment, and talking about how what happened to Aimee is unacceptable. I called attention to the subject."

Armin listened patiently.

"So like. I don't know. My suspension won't be lifted unless I do this."

She spun on the stool, slowly, curtain of hair hanging down.

"So, in your view, the fact that you sparked dialogue is of greater importance than the fact that you broke some eggs in the process." Armin remarked.

"Yeah. exactly."

"So. If Uncle Eren hit me, to make a broader point, that would be okay."

"Oh my God, no!!" Violet snorted.

"So. Maybe you aren't quite ready to put pen to paper, just yet. Let's focus on supporting Aimee at her show next weekend, at Red Door.

"Have you seen any of the photos?" Violet asked.

 Armin shook his pale head. "No. But I can't wait to see them."

"What were you like then?"

Armin picked up one of the erasers, scrubbing gently at the page. He blew softly.

"Me? I was a scrawny, awkward little boy that somehow had the best friends in the world..."

He paused. "Did Marco tell you that your Grandad Arthur and Hanje are coming?"

"That's great!"

"And...well... _She_ is coming." Violet did not misunderstand Armin's reference. She stopped spinning. She assessed Armin quietly. Frowned.

"Well," she pronounced carefully. " _She_ should come. It's Aimee's show."

"She's looking forward to seeing you, too. Not just Aimee."

Violet grimaced sourly. "Whatever."

Armin smiled then, to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing, Vi."

Violet crossed her arms across her chest, glaring at Armin in open defiance. Strong, fierce.

"What??"

_You are just like her._

__________

**SUMMER 1979**

For the first time, but certainly not for the last, Eren Jaeger watched the young man on his couch wake up.

Marco, his name was.

Eren stood in the kitchen of his apartment, above the Red Door Supper Club in Kensington Market. He kneaded dough for  _msemen_  at the kitchen counter. A pot of Turkish coffee perked on the sideboard.

Marco stirred, peeking out from beneath the nylon sleeping bag that Eren had thrown over him. He yawned. Scrubbed a hand through his dark hair, which was sticking up erratically. Gave Eren an apologetic smile.

Eren smiled back at him.

Marco blinked himself awake, watching Eren knead the dough, roll it paper-thin and then brush it with butter. He folded it three more times, and put it into the oven in a shallow pan. Then, he took a ripe bosc pear, slicing it razor-thin and dusting it with cinnamon.

Marco sat up, bits and pieces of the previous evening falling back into place. The Red Door Supper Club. The dancing. The last of the paying customers leaving at around eleven, and Sultan locking the door and turning the lunch counter into a speak easy. Apricot liquor that had made his ears burn.

Eren padded into the living room, carrying a small cup of coffee.

"Here," he handed it to Marco, sitting down on the end of the sleeping bag.

Marco took a slow sip. "I was dancing," he said hoarsely, "with a seven-foot-tall Greek biker."

Eren nodded. "Mike. Zacharius. He's Lithuanian."

"He's _big_." Marco sat up, wincing. "There was a girl, with crazy red hair, straddling the jukebox and catching quarters in her bra."

"Sasha."

"Oh, man...."

Marco took a long gulp of the coffee. "Ohhh. This is really good."

"Armin liked meeting you." Eren said quietly.

"Oh, yeah! Yeah. Where is he?"

"He has his practical exam today."

"Right. Of course."

"He's left you his numbers and things...you know, maybe you want to have a coffee sometime. Or a bite at school?" Eren's eyes softened hopefully.

"Yeah," Marco nodded. "Sure. I wouldn't want to intrude. With his friends or whatever."

 "Armin doesn't have any real friends at school."

Marco was quiet for a long moment. He looked around the small apartment. On the far wall was mounted a huge steel sign. "Titans of Industry," it read. It looked like a post-war industrial sign.

"Cool sign."

He heard a rumbling whine then, and jumped as something bumped his foot. "Ah! Shit!"

Eren smirked. "Meet Rex."

A small cylinder emerged from beneath the couch, red diode winking happily. "What....is it??"

"It's a vacuum. It wanders from room to room."

"A vacuum?"

"Yeah. It just wanders around. Vacuuming stuff. Armin and Jean built it."

Rex beeped, turned slowly and headed toward the hallway.

At the mention of Jean's name, Marco flushed, looking down at his coffee cup. He remembered something else.

"Did we burn my paisley shirt?" he said slowly, looking at Eren.

"Yup!" Eren got up, flipping the golden _msemen_  in it's skillet. "We had a funeral for your shirt, and torched it."

"In the garden?"

"Nope, on the roof. We had a bonfire." Eren pointed above his head.

"Oh, Jesus..."

Marco glanced down. He was still wearing Jean's _Thrush Automotive_  t-shirt.

Eren cut the _msemen_ into wedges, spread the sections with pomegranate jelly and layered the pears carefully on top. These, he topped with slices of pale cheese. As Marco watched with fascination, Eren pulled out a small acetylene torch and flamed-grilled the sandwiches.

Eren brought the sandwiches into the living room, and flipped on the TV. _Scooby-doo_ was on channel nine. He put his socked feet onto the coffee table.

Marco tried a bite of the sandwich. "This is outstanding," he chewed and nodded.

"Thanks."

Marco swallowed. "Um...so, did Jean...is Jean..."

"I think Jean slept in his truck," Eren didn't look away from the cartoon. "You slept in his usual spot."

Armin had met Jean at an industrial trade show. It had been the start of a strange kinship; the diminutive student and the working-class jack-of-all-trades. They would often hole themselves up in Eren's apartment, binge-building things, all night long. Shortly thereafter, Eren had begun to hear Armin really laugh; a pure, insane sound like a stoned fairy. His appetite had improved, and he'd wrapped his small body around Eren's in their bed with a renewed intensity. The change was, Eren suspected, born of the self-confidence that comes from taking care of another; both he and Mikasa fawned over Armin a little; Jean had no such instincts; it was a friendship of equals.

Eren and Jean, both intense individuals, were like two large men in a too-small room; they often jostled for oxygen. But, Jean was good for Armin, and that was good enough for Eren.

"I think Jean's taken a bit of a shine to you," Eren ventured.

His houseguest blushed crab-apple red.

"Oh," Eren raised his eyebrows.

Marco couldn't remember exactly how he'd landed on the couch; he did remember the orange flames of the bonfire, and he and Jean pressing into a brick nook on the rooftop. They'd both been inebriated by that point, Jean hugging and kissing him goodbye...or goodnight...his parting words making less sense than his tone...stripped of all reserve, quiet and raw: "See me again? Please? Please?" Marco had been pulled close, mouth pressed open by an apricot kiss, Jean's strong hands cupping his ass. It had made him hard, and dizzy.

He found he couldn't look at Eren at all.

"Marco...there's going to be a party here on Saturday. A really good friend of ours is back in town. We're all getting together. Why don't you come?"

"A friend?"

"Yeah. A photo-journalist. Just back from Marrakesh. Ymir."

"Okay. I'd love to meet him."

"Her," Eren grinned. "Trust me, there's nobody like her!"

The phone rang then. Eren answered, listening. "Jean," he mouthed to Marco.

"Hey buddy."

_Pause._

"Yeah, he's still here."

_Pause._

"Yeah, we're good. We're eating toasties. I uh...told him about Ymir's party. Marco would like to come. Yeah...he's bringing a guy. Robin Something-or-other..."

Eren put the phone receiver down on the table. Through it, Marco could hear muted ranting and raving. Eren took a casual sip of his coffee and picked it up again.

"Sorry Jean, gotta go open up now. See ya."

Eren hung up.

Marco gawped.

"What?" snickered Eren. "He's such a headache. I need to get my digs in sometimes."

__________

Bertl Huber was a big man; tall and broad, with long arms and hands like frying pans. He stooped, like a gentle giant, over his art table. From his hand protruded a dainty brush, and from the dainty brush, a perfect, yellow watercolour rose.

"Wow," Marco breathed.

He watched Bertl quietly. Bertl was a wedding invitation maker, and he worked out of Marco's dad's flagship store, on Bloor Street, near Holt Renfrew.

"Each rose," Bertl noted in his light German accent, "takes me eleven minutes to do."

"They look so real." Marco smiled. "I've got something for you."

He opened his hand, revealing a small china figurine. "Puss in Boots," he said. "You don't have Puss in Boots."

A shy smile crossed Bertl's long face. "Danke," he nodded happily. Bertl collected china figurines, out of Red Rose Tea boxes. On the ledge beside his art board, he displayed them.

 _The Art of Flowers_ was Arthur Bodt's pride and joy. The chubby, awkward younger brother of a bank chairman, Arthur would never receive the accolades that were showered upon his brother. He didn't care. He loved flowers. His wife, Noreen, was a wedding planner with a list of blue-chip clients. He had three _Art of Flowers_ shops in Toronto and one in Muskoka.

Bertl Huber worked for _The Art of Flowers_ , designing hand-painted wedding invitations for Toronto's elite. He was a trained calligrapher, and adorned his creations with flowers, birds of paradise, scrollwork and monograms.

Marco did the bookkeeping for the Bloor Street store. It kept him in pocket money while he attended school.

He watched Bertl create another rose; butter yellow, with gold highlights, green leaves.

"Well," he sighed. "Guess I'd better get done. Have you got timesheets for me Bert?"

"Yeah. There."

Marco paused.

_So, I met someone. A boy._

Just because Bertl was gay didn't require him to listen to a play-by-play of Marco's voyage of self-discovery.

_I didn't meet him at the Country Club either. He's rough and tumble and kisses with his entire body._

"Thanks Marco," Bertl nodded, "for the figurine."

Marco walked back out to the front of the shop. His father was fussing over an arrangement of blue hydrangea. Two of the staff were assisting him.

"No," Arthur placed his plump hands on his hips. "Not baby's breath..."

Marco looked at the arrangement. The jewel blue of the blooms needed something fresh, to offset.

"Potato vine, dad." he remarked.

"Yes!" Arthur clapped his hands together. "Such a bright, fresh green."

"Dad, is this all the timesheets?"

"Yes. You have such a good eye, Marco."

"Marco, you'll be the big boss one day, eh?" one of the staffers said.

"No," Arthur shook his head. "I love flowers, Marco loves other things. He may not be a florist. He doesn't need to be a florist. I just want my kid to be happy."

Marco turned away then, throat aching.

And then, the chimes on the door sounded. Marco looked up. Standing in the flower shop, wearing a _Lomax Heating and Air Conditioning_ shirt and cap, was Jean Kirschstein.

"Good afternoon," he grinned.

"And to yourself," Arthur replied pleasantly.

Marco gaped.

"Hi Marco," Jean nodded.

Marco continued to gape.

"Marco?" Arthur turned. "Who's this?"

"Jean," Marco found his voice.

"...Kirschstein," Jean finished, walking forward. "Jean Kirschstein. Marco and I have a couple mutual friends."

"Oh?" Arthur looked at his son.

Jean eyed the row of floral refrigerators, bursting with colour. "Nice setup, sir, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Thanks."

Jean handed a business card to Arthur Bodt. "My boss, Lomax Green offers 24-hour emergency service. It's no charge with a maintenance plan. Just in case you don't have a reliable serviceman. For your units."

"Ok. Jean, is it? French Canadian?"

Jean nodded. "Half. My family's from Gaspé."

"Dad," Marco found his voice then, "I'm going to get a sandwich. You want a sandwich?"

Marco and Jean walked out of the shop, around a corner and sat on a bench.

"So...." Marco looked at the ground, grinning uncontrollably, dimples appearing. "That's....well, that's my _dad._..that's our _flower shop_..."

"Nice fridges," Jean said sincerely.

"And uh...yeah. He loves flowers. My mom's a wedding planner."

"Do they _know_...?"

"Nope. No. They do not. I am not _out._  I'm just at that surreal place where I can't stay still and I can't go back, and going forward will mean changing everything."

"You might be pleasantly surprised." Jean turned to face Marco. "Please tell me that Eren was winding me up this morning. Jesus, Marco, I can't stop thinking about you. You'll come to Ymir's party with me, won't you?"

__________

Two days before the party, Marco Bodt went shopping. He'd taken a look inside of his closet, at the row of shirts that no longer fit him. He'd examined the pullovers that were, frankly, childish. He's pulled his GWG Husky jeans out of the drawer. Nothing would do.

The Toronto summer was in full bloom; the ferry boats shuttling parents and tots to Centre Island Amusement Park, the city's new  CN Tower, the tallest free-standing structure in the world, poised to become an iconic landmark. At the corner of Yonge and Queen Streets, rival department stores Simpson's and Eaton's had their store windows decked out for summer.

Marco wandered around the mens' department at Eatons. He stopped in front of the underwear display. There, in a package of three, were the same _Fruit of the Loom_ briefs his mother had been buying him since he was twelve years old; one white, one light blue, one navy.

And here, the same polo-knit, collared shirts that all the boys at the Country Club wore. Khaki trousers. Casual boat shoes.

Marco sighed.

He wandered out of Eaton's, onto Yonge Street, and made his way north. He passed record stores, head shops, and arcades.

Here, in a few gritty blocks nearing Wellesley Street, were the beer halls and clubs that, he knew, gay men frequented. He passed by a clothing store. On a mannequin in the window was a pair of peg-leg black jeans. He stopped. Smiled.

Marco entered the store, looking around. There were jeans, t-shirts, and sweaters. There was also a saucy row of mens' bikini underwear, in black and purple and lime green. Mesh tank tops. Boots.

"Can I help you honey?" A soft-spoken young guy, with a nose piercing.

"The jeans in the window...the black ones...have you got a thirty-six?"

Marco bought the jeans, two new sweaters, a black t-shirt patterned with tiny skulls, and three pair of black underwear. Feeling enormously pleased, he exited the store and walked north.

Outside of the _House of Lords_ Hair Stylist, a group of punks lounged against the plate glass. Marco stopped. He frowned.

One of the punks flicked cigarette ash to the pavement. "You want something?" he asked.

"Yeah," Marco replied slowly. "I think I want a haircut..."

His stylist, whose name was Davis, was of indeterminate gender. Davis had silver lipstick and brown skin.

"Can you please...I dunno. Can you un-barber-shop my hair?"

Davis had laughed throatily. "You're _cute,_ I love your freckles."

"Thanks..."

"So...saucy but not crazy?"

Marco looked at himself in the mirror. "I just...I look like my _mom_ cuts my hair."

Davis picked up a razor. "You'll like this baby..."

Davis cut the back and sides of Marco's hair short, and layered and tousled the top.

"You have some curl!" Davis palmed some mousse through Marco's hair. "Ugh, you're adorable. I want to eat you."

Marco smiled. The cut was short and clean, but the touseled top had a downtown edge to it.

 He left happy.

 __________

Marco returned home, went upstairs with his shopping bags and closed his bedroom door. Having a second thought, he went into the hall, took the full-length mirror off of the wall and lugged it into his bedroom.

He tried on his jeans. They fit snugly. He stood in front of the mirror, and turned around. The fabric hugged his ass. He had a very round backside. He pulled off his t-shirt and reached into the shopping bag. He'd bought a cream-coloured summer sweater. It was soft, and had a boat-neck. It was a cut he'd never worn; nearly feminine but not quite. The sweater was cropped at the hips. It was boxy, and Marco liked the way it hid his pudgy-bits.

He'd bought himself some short boots. Black, with zippers. He put the sweater and the boots on. His legs looked long, and less-thick.

He looked, to his own eye, _urban_. Cute. And a little bit gay. He made a saucy face.

He pulled off the jeans then, and took his new underwear out of the bag. He padded over and locked his door. He opened the package. The material was light, and silkier than the _Fruit of the Loom_ briefs from Eaton's.

He pulled on the black briefs, pushing a hand inside of them to arrange himself. He stood in front of the mirror. Bit his lip, pleased.

He turned around, craning to see his backside. The sweater was sweet, and the briefs just a little slutty.

Marco tilted the mirror, and lounged on his bed, enjoying his reflection.

He ran a hand up his freckled thigh. Grazed his crotch. He closed his eyes, thinking of the way Jean smelled like sunscreen, and the deep burr of his voice. Jean wasn't a boy; he handled himself like a man. He had sideburns and callouses. Beside him, Marco felt like a boy.

Absently, he ran his hand up and down, his groin bulging against the new black briefs. "Am I your boy?" he whispered. "Am I your boy?"

"Marco!" his mother's voice in the hall, outside of his door, splintered the atmosphere like a bullhorn.

"Aagh!" Marco threw himself off the bed, onto the floor on the far side of his room.

"What?" he barked. "I'm changing!"

"Supper."

__________

When Eren had made Marco grilled pears and cheese for breakfast, he'd sat beside Marco, on the couch to share the meal. By contrast, Marco sat in his family's dining room, alone in the middle of the table. His father sat at it's head, like the portly captain of a sailing vessel. His mother at the foot; prim, precise and remote.

Marco couldn't help but wonder what the table might have been like, filled with more brothers and sisters.

"We," announced his mother, "are having dinner at the Club on Saturday evening. I've invited the Reiss family to sit at our table." Noreen Bodt took a small, self-congratulatory sip of wine.

"Saturday?" Marco looked up from toying with his stuffed chicken.

"Rod Reiss, and his daughters, Frieda and Historia."

 " _This_ Saturday?"

 "Frieda is newly engaged," Noreen said pointedly to Arthur, "and the Royal York has been booked for the reception."

"I can't!"

"It will be the wedding of the season."

"Mom, _I can't!"_

Noreen blinked at her son. "Yes," she set her painted lips. "Of course, you'll be there. We are entertaining. We will introduce you to Historia Reiss. She is lovely, Marco. A little china doll."

"Mom, I have plans." Marco dropped his knife onto his plate with a clank.

Noreen did not dignify her son's protest with a response.

Marco's mouth had gone dry. He measured his mother. Perhaps he could beat her at her own game. _En garde, mom._

"Mom," he said evenly, "I have been invited to the home of a Mechanical Engineering student. He is _top_ of his class. I have already accepted the invitation. If I don't show up, that would be _incredibly bad form_. The contacts we make in university, we carry over into our professional life."

Arthur Bodt chuckled.

"Well," Noreen deflated. "Can you at least have a meal with us, and then make your excuses?"

_Touché_

"That," Marco Bodt said, "would be fine."

__________

"I can meet you," Marco said into the phone, "about eight-thirty."

"Sure," Jean voice, warm and rich, across the line.

"Sorry," Marco said quietly, "My mom needs me to come to a dinner thing and help her entertain. It's a big deal for her wedding business."

"I hear Eren Jaeger made you breakfast."

"Yeah."

"I want to make you breakfast," Jean said softly. "I want to make you breakfast and read the paper with you."

"I have to go," Marco whispered.

"Okay."

Marco sat in the hallway, twirling the phone cord around his finger.

"You didn't hang up, Sunshine."

Marco smiled to himself.

"I knew it," Jean said with mock resignation, "You're crazy 'bout me."

__________

Marco wasn't prepared for her. Historia Reiss was both diminutive and formidable, with hair of spun gold and the eyes of a soldier. She had tiny wrists and narrow shoulders. She was also majoring in Political Science, and chaired a trust for disadvantaged children.

Mother was in her element, waxing on to Rod Reiss about canopies and canapés.

Dad was tucking into his prime rib with gusto, napkin stuffed into the collar of his shirt. He chatted with Frieda and her fiance; a prep school boy. Marco thought his name might have been Winton. Or Winston.

Historia Reiss sat still and quiet, as though she was a butterfly that a nasty child had trapped inside of an empty jelly jar.

Marco's dark eyes softened sympathetically. "Historia," he leaned toward her, "maybe...maybe you'd like to see the fountains? The garden is all lit up."

She looked up, studying him. "Sure," she nodded, with relief.

Marco rose, and pulled out her chair. "Excuse us," he said.

The air outside was chilly. A gust blew the girl's sundress against her body.

Marco removed his crested jacket, placing it around her shoulders.

The walked through the garden, and paused to view the chandeliered dining room through the windows.

"My mom," Marco observed, "is a barracuda. Look. She's about to eat your father's face off."

Historia favoured him with a giggle.

Marco looked down. Around Historia's neck was a simple chain; threaded onto this was a glass bead; it was azure blue glass, threaded with green and gold.

"That's pretty," he said.

Historia reached up, fingering the bauble. "It's Moroccan," she said. "I borrowed it, from a friend."

"I met a Moroccan guy recently," Marco told her. "A chef."

Inside of the dining room, a lady from the Toronto Star's society pages was making her rounds, camera in hand.

Mother smiled for the camera, posing with Frieda Reiss.

"Say cheese," Marco joked.

"Trust me," Historia said quietly, "you don't want your photo taken with me."

"You sound so sad," Marco took her gently by the shoulders. "Listen, I'll just lay it out - I am not looking for a girlfriend. But I make a pretty good friend. If you need an ear, that is."

She looked up at him. Then, she stepped up onto the garden wall, and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Marco Bodt," she said.

__________

Marco half-ran down Augusta street, looking for the alleyway. He almost didn't believe that the Red Door Supper Club actually existed; perhaps it had just emerged from the mist for one special night, like the fabled Brigadoon.

Ah no; here was the alley, and the bead shop. And the red door. And, standing in the garden, Jean.

Marco slowed down. His new boots clicked on the cobbles.

Jean looked up then, his expression of slight confusion giving way to impish delight.

"Wow."

"Yeah," Marco felt his face redden. "I got a haircut."

Jean approached, reaching for Marco's hand."You look so, so fine..." he leaned in, kissing Marco gently. "You could've shown up in a brown paper bag. Would've been all the same to me," he said as he followed Marco into the restaurant, appreciating the snug, black jeans.

The Supper Club was already busy; the lunch counter was full, and the tables held lively groups. Eren looked up, through the passway, from the kitchen to the lunch counter. He gave Jean and Marco a quick salute.

Marco nodded back.

"Marco!" A small arm shot up, through the crowd, "Marco!"

Armin squeezed himself between the patrons, grinning happily. "Hi, Marco!"

"Oh, and also - Hi Jean, you invisible asshole," Jean drawled.

"I just saw you five minutes ago," Armin replied flatly.

"I'm glad you're here...come and have a drink," And Marco found himself being tugged through the crowd by his new pal.

Jean leaned across the lunch counter. Sultan clapped him on the shoulder.

"Her plane land okay?" Jean asked the burly owner.

"Yeah. She's not in pieces."

Jean snorted "Well shit, that's good, Sultan."

"She'll be here soon."

Jean nodded.

__________

For years afterward, Marco remembered exactly where he'd been when she'd come in. He was standing in the doorway that had the beaded glass curtain, talking to Eren.

Eren had just handed him a skewer of lamb.

Jean, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, was standing at the lunch counter, attempting to tell a louder story than the red-headed girl, Sasha, and pulling on her ponytail.

The door had opened, it's brass chimes banging merrily.

Ymir de Sera had blown, like a whirlwind, into the Red Door Supper Club. 

 "Eyo!" she'd cried, brandishing a half-finished bottle of Remy and wearing a green military jacket.

Jean had reached her first. He'd thrown an arm around her neck, forehead pressed to hers, in silent communion.

"You're safe," he'd rasped.

"Don't cry, you little prick," she said warmly, hugging the back of his head with a long, brown hand.

"It's all good! I'm back! I'm back, and Levi's back and Reiner's back! We're all here, and tonight we're gonna celebrate. And," the freckled, tanned adventurer declared, "I'm not letting this girl out of my sight all night!"

She'd bent her head then, planting a long, soulful kiss onto the lips of her smaller companion. She'd raised her head again, beaming joyfully.

Tucked protectively under Ymir's arm, was Historia Reiss. 

 


	4. Any World (That I'm Welcome To)

_If I had my way_  
_I would move to another lifetime_  
_I'd quit my job_  
_Ride the train through the misty nighttime_  
_I'd be ready when my feet touch ground_  
_Wherever I come down_  
_And if the folks will have me_  
_Then they'll have me_

 _Any world that I'm welcome to_  
_Is better than the one I come from_

 _I can hear your words_  
_When you speak of what you are and have seen_  
_I can see your hand_  
_Reaching out through a shining daydream_  
_Where the days and nights are not the same_  
_Captured happy in a picture frame_  
_Honey, I will be there_  
_Yes, I'll be there_

~Steely Dan

 

**2015**

"Aimee Bodt!" Pops bellowed down the basement stairwell. "I'm gonna put that ABBA record through the grinder in a minute!"

Working in the basement rec room, Aimee, Violet and Aimee's girlfriend Isabel, stared at one another.

"Record," giggled Violet quietly. " _Record_..."

"Aimee _Bodt_ ," noted her sister. "It's always Aimee _Bodt_ when he's pissed at me."

"Sorry Pops," Aimee called.

"It's fine," came Pops voice, "A guy can only take so much _Dancing Queen_ , honey. Switch it up, will ya?"

The girls had made a seventies play-mix, to get into the mood as they prepared the photographs and display notes for Aimee's show.

Aimee was writing the expositions which would accompany her prints. Isabel, a visual arts major, was framing the prints on top of the billiard table.

Violet lay on the carpet doing nothing, a blank pad of paper and pen in her hand. She still hadn't written her letter of apology to the Dean of Athletics.

Her mind was blank. She still had no idea what her core message was. Her indecision was compounded by the fact that, earlier in the week, Aimee had received a call from Ymir. Most of the film negatives that Jean had given to Aimee, had turned out to be Ymir's.

 _Figures,_ Violet groused. Of course, Ymir had taken those pictures of her friends, so long ago. She was a photo-journalist. She had spent years in North Africa, with Reuters news agency. It was her eye, her hand that had captured Jean, Marco, Armin, Historia, Sasha and the others. And now, Ymir was more than happy to walk Aimee through the images, providing detail, and context.

Aimee thumbed through her tablet. "Izzy," she called to Isabel, "Ymir's just sent over all her notes on the photos!"

Aimee tapped at her tablet, then went upstairs to fetch her printouts.

Violet lurched slowly off of the floor, laying her arms and head onto the pool table.

She watched Isabel. Izzy wore fingerless gloves, an old tuxedo jacket with tails, and striped leggings. She had a row of silver hoops punctuating one ear. Of greatest curiosity to Violet was a tiny, black pillbox hat which seemed to sit, unaided, on top of Isabel's flame-red hair.

"Tim Burton called," Violet drawled, "he want's his cat's hat back."

"D'you want to try it on?" Izzy grinned.

"Yeah."

Isabel unfastened the hat carefully, and affixed it on top of Violet's wavy hair.

"You look like Stevie Nicks."

Violet picked a print up off the table. A curvy, wild girl in white mod boots and batwing eyeliner, sitting atop a jukebox.

"This is so _not_ your mom," she said. "But Izz, you look just like her. It's so _weird_ , seeing them all so young."

Sasha and Connie were Isabel's parents. They'd been the first of the group to marry.

Aimee slunk back downstairs, dropped to her knees on the carpet and flopped on her face. "Oh my _God_ , there's so much content!" she wailed.

"Give it here," said Isabel. "I'll type out Ymir's notes and mount them."

"No, Izz," Aimee groaned. "Can you please keep framing? I can't frame straight, I suck."

Violet stuck her hand in the air. "Give it to me," she said.

"What's on your head?"

"Izzy's little hat."

"No Vi. You need to write your thing."

"I don't know what I want to say yet. Lemme help you."

Aimee considered. "Okay, Vi. So, four of the images from the old negatives are _not_ Ymir's. See if Daddy or Pops knows where they came from. And...well, there's one of Reiner."

"Who's Reiner again?" Izzy asked around the picture wire shoved between her lips.

"Reiner was Bertl's husband."

"Oh," said Izzy quietly.

"If we want to display the picture, we need to talk to Bertl."

"I got this," Violet waggled her fingers impatiently. "Type notes for the completed ones, and find out about the four with no notes. I've got it. I actually _do_ study at a university level."

"Okay. And thank you, Vi. I had no idea...how much there'd be to do...."

Still wearing Isabel's little hat, Violet wandered upstairs. Nobody was in the kitchen. She trailed out into the garage.

Her Pops was in the garage. He'd probably come out here, seeking refuge from ABBA. He was doing, what the girls called, 'grinding shoes." Everyone in the household had a fondness for leather shoes and boots. Every couple of weeks, Jean gathered up all of the shoes, affixed the buffer attachment to his grinder and polished shoes for Marco and his daughters.

Thirty years of skilled labour had given Jean a broad, strong back, and well-muscled arms. He wore a cut-off sweatshirt. He had a Viking knotwork tattoo around his bicep, and just below it, the year 1996 and a single, purple violet.

Sensing her presence, he turned to look at his younger daughter. Strong jaw, a sandy brush of hair and laugh lines around his mouth. He turned the grinder off.

"I bet," the deep, easy drawl, "that piece of paper weighs about eighty pounds by now."

Violet padded over to his workbench.

"Write anything?" Jean asked.

Violet held up the page.

_Dear Dean,_

_Bite me._

"Bit short, eh?" Jean regarded her, hazel eyes dancing.

"I'm unsure of what I want to say. I'm taking a break and helping Aimee."

Violet pulled a print out of the envelope Aimee had given her.

"Who took this?"

"I don't have my glasses, kid."

"They're on your head."

"Oh..." Jean took the picture from his daughter.

"It's you and Daddy. But where is it? I have to take notes for the show."

Jean's expression softened, his eyes far-away. "Go ask your Daddy."

Violet looked at him.

"Marco can explain it better," Jean said, turning back to the grinder.

Violet hesitated.

"Are you...are you mad at me?"

"Why? What'd you do?"

"About the fight."

"'Course not."

"Yeah, you are. I can tell."

Jean sighed. "You had a point to make, you made it." He took a long, high-heeled boot out of the box at his feet. "But....you think maybe you were grandstanding, just a little bit? Was this about Aimee or was it about the world seeing that Violet Bodt-Kirschstein has a mean right hook in the name of social justice?"

Violet squeezed her eyes shut. "Shit," she conceded. "I dunno. Maybe?"

"C'mere."

Violet stood beside Jean.

"Gimme your hand."

She put her hand in his large, calloused one. When Pops made a fist, it was the size of a grapefruit.

He took her hand, opened it, and placed it on the edge of his workbench. Along the edge of the worn, painted wood was a series of notches.

"Feel those?"

Violet ran her hand along the edge. "Yeah."

"Feel 'em good," her father's voice rumbled in her ear.

"Those there, are notches I put into this work bench, with my hatchet, every time I _didn't_ lamp someone that desperately deserved it. And believe me, alot of people over the years have had it coming. It took me years.... _years_....to understand that Daddy doesn't need me to fight his battles. Daddy's kind, and gentle, and soft-hearted. But he's a smart man. And a strong one. And he's held my sorry ass together for decades. So, I learned to hold my temper. Therefore, I don't have a criminal record. And because of that, I was able to have children come to our house. Your little pals, to sleep over. And I could go on field trips with your class at school. And teach shop classes. And take care of Uncle Gil. And I could travel to other countries, with Daddy. I could have a family, and be part of something bigger than myself."

Violet ran her hand along the edge of the workbench thoughtfully.

"A lot of people needed a punch in the face," she remarked.

"More than you know, kiddo."

__________

Violet stopped in the kitchen to help herself to some guava juice. Pausing, she poured a second glass and carried it into the den.

Daddy was on the couch, laptop on his knee, papers on the ottoman in front of him. He was wearing what he called his _daughter-cancelling headphones_. He was singing softly.

Violet grinned. His dark hair was shot with silver at the temples, his form solid, but trim after years of fencing club, and dance. Half of her friends had schoolgirl crushes on him.

She stood in front of him, with the guava juice.

Marco Bodt looked up. His dark eyes shone. He pushed the headphones off.

"Hi, Peach."

"I thought you might be thirsty."

"Thanks, honey."

Violet sank down onto the couch, beside him. Marco sighed, raising an arm and putting it around her. She snuggled close.

"What are you wearing?"

"Izzy's hat. What are you doing?"

"Boring stuff."

"Show me our picture."

Marco smiled. She hadn't asked in a while. He leaned over, pulled out his wallet and extracted a worn, dog-eared photo.

It was ballet class. Marco, his five-year-old daughter Violet, and nine other tiny girls. Violet looked lethal and serious, in a little black respirator. Her Darth Vader mask. Marco and his little troupe had their arms raised above their heads.

"Oh, man," Violet giggled happily. "Why didn't you just leave me on a street corner?" she snickered. "What a little reject."

"You wore that respirator to dance for a year," Marco said, "Your lungs were very bad as a baby, but the time came for us to start getting your heart and lungs to work harder. The mask helped you to breathe properly, at first. Until you didn't need it anymore."

"Daddy, why did you take ballet lessons?"

"I had to. My fencing coach made me. He was right. It made me a better athlete."

"We went every Saturday morning," Violet mused.

"Yes. And then we went to Red Door and Uncle Eren made us toasties."

"Okay." she sat up. "I'm helping Aimee. I have some pictures I need more detail on. Where's this?"

Violet handed Marco the same picture she'd shown Jean. "Where is this?"

Marco took the picture. He blinked. Then a slow, sad smile.

_He and Jean. Lounging on the grass, in the backyard of his parents' home. Late summer, 1979. They'd been running around the yard, fooling around, fencing with two oil dipsticks. They'd collapsed on the grass. Jean sitting. Marco in front of him, his head on Jean's chest. Jean had one hand on Marco's neck, cradling, protective. It had been a still, heavy August afternoon. Cicadas keening above the hammer-echo of a distant neighbour, building his deck._

_He was Jean's by then, body and soul. And Jean was his. Lovers. It was a curious photograph, it's foreground texture a window screen, through which the two young lovers had been captured on film._

"Did Ymir take this?"

"No," Marco said softly. He didn't look up from the picture. "No, honey. Your grandpa Arthur took this."

"Huh." Violet scribbled on her paper.

"This was a week before my mother left."

"Hanje _left?_ " Violet raised her head abruptly.

"No, no. Hanje loves your Grandpa Art. I meant Grandpa's first wife. My birth mother."

Violet swallowed. The last thing she wanted was to upset Daddy. "Why?"

Marco touched a fingertip to the picture, thoughtfully.

"I guess we weren't the kind of family that she wanted."

Violet's eyes filled with tears. "That sucks," she sniffed.

Marco hugged her tight. "Never mind, you big mush," he said. "I think we turned out just fine."

__________

**SUMMER, 1979**

The curtains fell with a clatter. Marco ducked into the kitchen. Eren swished past him, skirting the lunch counter to greet Ymir. He grabbed both of her shoulders, kissed both of her cheeks, chattering happily in _darija_.

Ymir nodded, and Marco caught the word, 'Armin'.

Armin squished through the crowd. Ymir clapped eyes on him, and yanked up his shirt, exposing his little bird ribs.

"Eren!" she pronounced it with a hard-r, the same way that Sultan and Mikasa did. "You promised to feed him!" she scolded.

"I try," Eren replied.

Ymir turned then, as Sultan emerged from behind the lunch counter. The younger group made space for the proprietor.

" _Moulay_ Ibrahim," she used his name, which Marco had never heard. She nodded respectfully, and then kissed him on both cheeks.

He regarded her, eyes filling, and nodded. "You've come home to us."

Jean poked his head into the kitchen. "Hey! There you are!"

"I...."

"C'mon, you...." Jean held out a spatulate hand.

Marco winced. "Okay. But..."

Jean pulled Marco out of the kitchen, and over to the group at the door.

"Ymir," he jabbed her, "meet my friend, Marco."

"Oh?" she had fine, expressive eyebrows, and one of them was cocked in curiosity. "Marco? Marco." she held out a hand, "Ymir."

"Hello," Marco smiled nervously. His eyes darted to Historia.

"This is Historia," Ymir made room for her girlfriend.

The blue eyes were wide, jaw set, and she regarded Marco levelly. "Yes, I _know_ Marco," Historia said carefully, "we've just had dinner together."

"What?" Ymir laughed aloud, "this oughta be good."

"Please," Marco addressed Historia, "I didn't follow you here. I swear. I...I'm..."

Jean slid an arm around Marco's waist then, kissing him on the cheek. "Marco is with me."

"Marc-..." Historia blinked. "Marco...is with you? _With_ with you?

"If I play my cards right," Jean's hand moved up Marco's back, fingers brushing the newly-exposed nape of his neck appreciatively.

"Jeez, I'm drier than an eighty-year-old-hooker," Ymir complained. "this is the longest introduction in the free world. Jean, where's _Moulay_ Ibrahim hiding the apricot wine?"

__________

Marco perched on a stool at the lunch counter, watching the evening unfold. Embraces, laughter, tears of joy. Food and drink. Song and dance.

He was approached by the fiery redhead, Sasha, and her boyfriend Connie, a cheerful wiry young man with a silver buzz cut.

"Come dance," Sasha beckoned.

Marco followed her onto the floor. Sasha was an expressive, if not overly-graceful dancer, and she and Marco ended up laughing, spinning and colliding on the floor.

The lights dimmed, and Sultan lit candles. Marco felt a strong arm grab him from behind. "Did Sasha hurt you?" Jean buzzed in his ear.

The music slowed. Marco turned, eyes soft and serious, and laid his head on Jean's shoulder.

"Mmmm," he felt the sound, through his bones. He pressed close to Jean, wanting to dance, and wanting a little more.

He turned his head, still resting it on Jean's shoulder, and looked outward. The soft lights in the Supper Club swam warmly. Jean began to kiss his neck, lips ghosting across the dip at the nape.

"I like this haircut very much," Jean murmured. Marco closed his eyes, belly tingling, and tightening.

"Jesus you're gorgeous..."

Jean hooked his thumbs into the back pockets of Marco's jeans, fingers grazing his bottom through the black denim. He continued to kiss Marco's neck.

Jean pulled away a little then. "Sorry," he breathed.

"Dance close with me," Marco raised his head. "No one will know but us..."

Jean pulled him close, allowing the hard bulge in his jeans to press against Marco's groin.

Marco raised his face, kissing Jean slowly on the mouth. Tentatively, he slid a hand down Jean's back, cupping the hard, rounded muscle of his backside.

__________

Something decidedly odd was going on at the round table at the back of the Club which Ymir commandeered.

Ymir and a small, frightening black-haired man were smacking shot glasses covered with cheesecloth against the tabletop and then downing them. After each shot, the small man sat in dour silence and Ymir laughed, highly amused.

She had doffed her army jacket, and wore a tank top; her lean, brown arms covered in freckles. A set of dog tags dangled from her neck, winking in the low light. She pulled a small, round package out of the dark man's pocket and produced a cigarette. She lit this, taking a drag and leaned back in her chair. She raised her head, looking right at Marco. He was standing by the lunch counter, drinking a strange, sour drink that Sasha had bought for him, producing a five-dollar-bill from the depths of her sequinned bra.

Ymir beckoned to him. Marco wove his way through the crowd. Ymir gestured to an empty chair beside her.

"Levi," she gestured to her companion, "a popper for Marco."

Levi poured tequila into three shot glasses, topping this with fizzy limoncello.

"Cover it," Ymir instructed, "bang, and shoot."

Marco tried to comply, nearly missing his mouth.

"I can't miss my mouth again," he gasped. "first time I was here, I made a mess and we ended up burning my shirt."

"Historia says you took care of her tonight," Ymir remarked. "She says she's known your family for a while."

"Our parents travel in the same circles," Marco said drily. "It's as horrible as you think."

"Hey, no judgement," Ymir motioned to Levi for a refill. "Marco, this is Levi Ackerman. He's a journalist, and a pilot. He and I work for Reuters, out of North Africa, mostly."

Levi nodded at Marco, without much interest.

"He's also Mikasa's cousin. And this big boy," she reached up to grab the arm of a thickset, blond man, "is Reiner Braun. He works security for Reuters."

"Braun," Marco reached over to find his hand swallowed in Reiner's iron grip, "Deutsche?"

"Yes," the big man nodded. "Munich."

"I have a good friend who's German. Bertl Huber. He works with my dad."

"And you?" Ymir asked.

Marco snorted. "Nothing half as interesting. I live on north Bayview Avenue with my parents, I'm studying Commerce at U. of T."

"How'd you find your way down to Kensington?"

"Well...I was supposed to meet someone here, for dinner. Only they couldn't come. And then...well, I met Jean."

Ymir held out the round package of cigarettes to Marco. "Want one?"

"No thanks," he replied, "I fence."

She chuckled. "You...?"

"Fence. Sport Fencing. Foils."

Ymir watched Jean attempt to force-feed a morsel of pineapple to Armin.

"He comes off like a player," she said softly, not taking her eyes off of Jean. "He's not. He's taken a shine to you. I haven't seen him like this in...a really long time." Ymir took a thoughtful draw on her smoke, blowing rings like a nocturnal fairy.

"You seem sincere," she said carefully. "but Marco, if you're a tourist...here to sample what it feels like to be someone's boy, then Jean's not the person for you. He gives too much of himself, too fast."

Marco turned then, looking directly into Ymir's eyes. They were clear and honey brown; the eyes of an old soul.

"Ymir, would you like to dance with me?" he asked her. "I'm actually quite good."

Ymir de Sera threw back her head and laughed heartily. "Yes, I would. If you grab my ass, I'll belt you one."

Marco believed her.

__________

_In July of 1979, Historia Reiss, darling of the Globe & Mail's society pages, "came out" to her family, colleagues and associates, by way of a letter written to her grandfather Uri and left, along with her house keys, on his desk._

_It took a week, but the paparazzi finally succeeded in snapping a picture of Historia, walking in Yorkville and holding hands with a woman identified as Ymir de Sera, 27, a photo journalist for Reuters News Agency._

_The Board of Trustees in charge of the fund entrusted for Historia's work with children in Romania, Cambodia and North Africa immediately cut the heiress off, at the instruction of her father, Rod Reiss._

_Historia Reiss challenged the Board's decision, retaining as her legal counsel, international human rights activist, Erwin Smith._

_In 1983, The Board's decision was overturned, and it was ruled that Historia Reiss's Childrens' Foundation could not be denied funding solely on the basis of her sexual orientation. It was a landmark ruling._

__________

The caption went with a photo. Historia, standing in the garden of the Red Door Supper Club with a tall, crisply attired blond man, who had one arm.

"Are you sure of all the dates, Vi?" Aimee read the passage her sister had written to accompany the photo.

"Yeah..."

"You don't sound positive," Aimee said quietly. "Give them a quick shout. Fact-check it. Can you?"

Violet growled, took the page back from Aimee and trudged up the stairs.

She took out her cel, thumbing through the contacts, and dialed a 212 exchange in New York.

The phone rang.

_Please don't be home...please don't be home...._

"Hello?" Ymir answered.

A pause.

"Vi?"

Violet swallowed. 

_Ymir visited, when she could. It wasn't often. She was loud, she teased, but she always brought interesting treasures with her. Violet was both daunted, and fascinated by her. Shy at first, she was always quick to thaw each time Ymir visited. After Ymir would depart, Violet would lie on the mat in the front hall, crying. Jean, or Marco, would inevitably scoop her up, soothing her hiccupped cries of "Mimi...Mimi..." Violet, at a gut level, was unable to process the distinction between surrogate, and mother. Ymir had carried first Aimee, and then her, for nine months, so that Daddy and Pops could have a family. Aimee's relationship with Ymir was easy, chatty. Violet knew no such peace. It seemed to be a one-sided bond, and Violet had nowhere to put her adoration, so she'd swallowed it. Hope had become disappointment; disappointment had hardened to cynicism._

"Vi, is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Everything's just dandy. Is _Krista_  home?" 'Historia' had been too hard a word, when they were little.

__________

Jean lowered himself, with a grateful groan onto his bed. He was warm, freshly showered, and ready for sleep.

Beside him, Marco read, cross-legged on the bed.

From the basement came the muted sounds of giggling, thumping, and ABBA.

"ABBA," Jean snorted. "Jesus, our entire decade has been reduced to ABBA."

"Bertl always liked ABBA," Marco commented.

"What does that tell you?"

Jean rolled onto his side. "Marco, there are three giggling women in our basement."

"Uh-huh."

"Where did they come from?"

"I don"t know," Marco smiled to himself. "It's like...one minute we were twenty, and the next instant...here we are."

"We should go to the lake, before the leaves turn," Jean whispered, sitting up and gently removing Marco's reading glasses.

"Just you 'n' me..." he cupped the handsome, freckled face, kissing his husband softly. "Who loves you?"

 

 


	5. Counting for Thunder

**DECEMBER 1967**

"Ow!"

"Keep still, Marco."

"Ow, mom!"

_"Stop it!"_

A few tense moments passed, marked by the Christmas lights outside of the dining room window blinking _on...off...on...off._

Jay-Jay finished polishing the flatware, stacking the pieces like the stoic soldiers they were, into the silver chest.

She inhaled, listening. Mrs. Bodt was in the upstairs hallway, trying to wrangle her eight-year-old's hair into submission.

"Mom, ow! You're pulling!"

_Crack._

A slap on his soft, freckled flesh.

Silence.

Jay-Jay flinched, her eyes squeezing shut. She placed the silver chest into the sideboard, and went back into the kitchen.

He bounced in sometime later, his hair wrestled into a side-part which threatened to spring back to it's natural front cowlick at any second. Already, the little locks at the crown were standing on end again.

"Hi, Jay-Jay!" he chirped.

"G'morning precious," she smiled at him.

Marco climbed onto one of the high stools, at the kitchen's centre island.

"Mom tried to fix my hair," he noted quietly. He looked up at her uncertainly.

Jay-Jay put down the potato peeler, wiped her hands on the dish towel over her shoulder, and turned to face the somber little boy.

She took the round cheeks in both of her hands, and kissed the freckled forehead. _Lord in heaven, this little boy was spotted, like a fawn. So many, they'd never fade entirely._

"Ain't nothing needs fixing," she kissed one cheek.

"You're fine, just as you are," she kissed the other cheek.

"And you'll be just as fine next Tuesday, and just as fine next summer, too!"

Marco giggled.

"You want to come back and help me after church?" Jay-Jay asked him.

"Sure!" The brown eyes danced.

"Fine," Jay-Jay lifted the spiced ham for the Bodt's formal dinner into the oven. "I'll tell Mrs. Bodt that I'll mind you."

__________

After squirming his way through the Anglican church service, Marco was dropped off back at the house by a neighbour, while his parents attended a luncheon at the Club. Jay-Jay met him at the front door, waving to Mrs. Perkins, who had delivered him.

The Bodt's home on upper Bayview Avenue featured a grand staircase that wound down to the front hallway, it's banister a gleaming length of mahogany. The front hall was lined with rosewood panels, as tall as Marco. There was a table in the centre, which always held a stunning arrangement of flowers. It was close to Christmas, and hallway was filled with the smell of evergreen, orange and spice.

Two floor-length wall mirrors flanked the table, on either side. Marco liked the mirrors. When he looked into one of them, he saw the Christmas bouquet reflected not once, but multiple times, in the mirror that he gazed into, and in the one behind him.

Marco's job, on Sunday afternoons, was to help Jay-Jay dust. She had fed him his lunch first, listening with great interest to the story of Herman Massey, who'd brought his plastic dinosaur to church, walked it along the back of the pew in front, and put it's face into Mrs. Fowler's hair, without her noticing.

After lunch, armed with a can of lemon-scented Pledge, a rag and a feather-duster, Marco wandered out into the front hallway. He heard the hum-and-bump of the vacuum cleaner, which Jay-Jay was dragging from room to room.

Marco began to hum, matching the pitch of the vacuum. Using both hands, he depressed a squirt of Pledge onto the newel at the bottom end of the banister and rubbed at it with his rag. The wood gleamed. It smelled like lemon loaf.

He ran to the top of the stairs. One day, he would have parties, and all of his friends would come. He would have many friends. Some of them would have sports cars. He would use the switch on the wall to raise and lower the glass chandelier and turn it on, so that the hallway would blaze with diamonds of light.

Marco walked down the staircase.

 _"Hello. Oh, hello! I'm so glad you could come!"_ he greeted his imaginary guests.

He ran back up the staircase, stopping at the top. Then, he sashayed down the stairs again, this time a little more elegantly, dragging his hand along the banister.

_"Why, hello!"_

_"Hello, Mr. Bodt! Thank you for inviting us! Is that a new car you have outside?"_

_"Why, yes! Yes it is...."_

Marco trudged up the stairs again. He glanced furtively over the top of the banister, trying to ascertain Jay-Jay's whereabouts. He crept into his parent's room. It was like a crypt; sterile and silent, everything in precise order.

He eased open the door to the walk-in closet, and pulled his father's smoking jacket off of it's hanger.

Marco loved it. It was silk, and had a fierce dragon coiling across the back. He put it on, the sleeves puddling over his plump hands. Marco didn't care.

Now ready to greet his guests, he minced down the stairs, creating the voices of his guests as he went.

_"Oh, Mr. Bodt! What a magnificent jacket! What a lovely party!"_

This devolved, shortly thereafter, into singing: _"La-dee-dah, lah-dee-dah!"_

_"I dare say!"_

_"You look fabulous, Mr. Bodt!"_

 He bowed then, but realized something was missing.

He huffed back up the stairs, holding up his dad's smoking jacket so that he didn't trip. He went back to the closet, helping himself to Arthur's fedora hat. He put this on, succeeding in smushing the hair that his mom had tortured into place.

He minced out onto the landing.

Voices of his guests, again: _"Oh, there he is! Why Marco, what an enchanting party!"_

He descended the staircase, nodding left and right, at his company. _"La-dee-dah! La-dee-dah!"_

At the bottom of the stairs, after a slow twirl in his smoking jacket, he removed his hat, bowing gallantly to all.

_"La-dee-dah!"_

Jay-Jay leaned in the doorway. "I like your house, Mister Bodt," she smiled.

His head shot up. His hair stuck out every-which-way, like a little hedgehog.

 _"Thank you, Miss Jay-Jay!"_ Marco bowed. _"Would you care for a cocktail?"_

"Why yes I will. Now Mr. Bodt," she tilted her head, "I can't help but notice your banisters are a bit dusty..."

Marco grinned. He'd lost a front tooth, and the new one was half-grown-in.

 _"La-dee-dah!"_ he twirled around, brandishing the feather duster. _"En garde!"_

__________

Marco was allowed to sit on the stairs, in his pyjamas, to say goodbye to Jay-Jay as she left for her date. It was a Saturday night. His mom was out somewhere. His dad had just returned home from his flower shop, to eat the dinner that Jay-Jay had left in the oven, covered with aluminium foil.

Marco heard the _click-clack-click-clack_ of Jay-Jay's boots as she came up from the basement, where her room was. Marco hugged his knees to his chest.

Jay-Jay entered the hallway.

"Whoa..." Marco breathed. Jay-Jay was transformed.

Instead of her housekeeping uniform, she sported a brilliant blue mini-dress, and white, high-heeled boots. Her hair, normally pulled into tidy knots, was teased into an Afro, and she'd used some sparkly hairspray that twinkled.

"Jay-Jay," Marco leaned forward, "Lemme see!"

Jay-Jay turned toward him and closed her eyes. Her eyelids had blue, glittery shadow on them. Her lipstick was silvery.

She arched an eyebrow. "You get up to bed now."

But Marco didn't. He was still sitting on the stairs when a tall boy named Clarence rang the doorbell. He had a flat top, a jacket and a skinny tie.

Marco's dad came out of his study then, appraising Clarence over his reading glasses.

"This," he said a little sternly, "is Janis' home. And someone will be waiting up until she is returned here, safely."

"Yeah," Marco agreed quietly.

Jay-Jay pointed a long, slender finger up the stairs, for Marco's benefit.

She looked like a magical dragon.

___________

**SUMMER 1979**

Janis St. James, "Jay-Jay" to the family that employed her, wondered at times where her twenties had gone. She had married Clarence Post at twenty-eight.

Mr. Bodt had done the flowers at her wedding. He had given her away, proudly, at the tiny baptist church on Victoria Park Avenue, in Scarborough.

She'd earned a certificate in Hospitality Services from Centennial College.

Jay-Jay turned thirty-five in the summer of 1979. She'd been working for the Bodt family for thirteen years.

 _You don't need to work there any more_ , Clarence had told her. _I can provide. Or, if you want work, then find something you love._

The truth was that Jay-Jay was unwilling to leave Marco. Not just yet. He was grown now, a wonderful young man, but she could not bring herself to leave. Not just yet.

 _It's only for a spell longer_ , she'd told Clarence.

And then, one June evening, everything changed.

That evening, Marco had put on a paisley shirt, attempted to paste his hair into place, and had gone out for dinner. She'd watched him in the hallway, an uncertain, husky boy with gorgeous dark eyes and an earnest, open face.

He'd snapped off a single pink carnation, fitting it into the buttonhole of his shirt.

_La-dee-dah_

Jay-Jay didn't know anything about the young man Marco was meeting for dinner. Robin Something.

And she wasn't likely to find out more; Robin wouldn't be coming to the door. He would not be introduced to Noreen. He would not be accompanying the family to the Club for luncheon. Marco was, of necessity, easing out of his own world.

Marco looked up then, seeing Jay-Jay in the hallway.

He nearly achieved a smile, like a damp butterfly attempting to take off.

"You're okay," Jay-Jay said reassuringly. "You go on, now."

__________

**Late Summer 1979**

"I don't know," Jay-Jay had said to Clarence. "I just don't know..."

Clarence Post was settled in front of the TV, the warmed-up leftovers of one of Jay-Jay's crockpot stews balanced on his chest.

He didn't reply; Jay-Jay would not be elaborating. She was discreet, and not a gossip. The lives of her employers, were their own.

"I thought people became happier when they got older," was all she'd say. "More settled."

"No, baby," Clarence replied practically, "Not everybody does. Just us." He'd reached over and pinched her soft arm gently.

 "You want to go swim? Go out?"

 "She's not home this weekend," Jay-Jay mused. "Maybe I'll make some chicken and bring a plate for Mr. Bodt."

"You want me to come with?"

"You're watching the game..."

Clarence didn't object. He was astute enough to recognize a win, when he saw one.

__________

"Jay-Jay?"

Marco was surprised to see her in the kitchen. His mother was away, visiting some friends in Muskoka. His dad was due home from _The Art of Flowers_ shortly. It was supposed to be Jay-Jay's day off.

Jay-Jay looked up. Marco wore a black t-shirt, patterned with skulls, and a pair of soft, worn levis, with threadbare knees.

He'd gotten a new haircut that summer; an undercut, with a messy top which split in front, where his natural part was. No more torturing his hair into a shape that it just wasn't.

"You look..." she stopped. It wasn't that he looked _nice_....he didn't, really. But he did look comfortable in his own skin...curious...artsy. "You look like you're ready to have a good time."

"I'm....we're...just going to the movies. To see _Alien_."

"Say what?"

"Alien. It's a space movie."

"Jay-Jay, remember when you and Clarence used to go dancing?"

She chuckled. "We may be married, Sunshine, but we're not _dead_ yet!"

"I used to love what you wore. I loved your big hair and your white boots and sparkly eyes. It was like..."

Marco sat at the island awkwardly. He was so long-legged that there was really no place for his thighs.

His voice tightened. "It was like...all week I would see you, wearing your uniform, with your hair pulled tight...and then...bam! There you were. The real Jay-Jay. Free and...and fierce and beautiful."

Jay-Jay flapped a hand at the young man she'd known since he was five years old. "You remember what Mr. Bodt always said, when someone came to the door?"

Marco grinned. "Yep: This is Janis' home...I'll be waiting up....blah, blah, blah...and he'd scowl."

"Your dad has been a very good friend," Jay-Jay said quietly. "Nobody uses a back door in his house, you understand?"

Jay-Jay turned to look at Marco. He was staring at her, mouth drawn tight, and eyes wide and uncertain. He held something in his hand. His chest rose, and fell.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

Marco pressed his lips tightly together. The moment had arrived too quickly; the truth was on the tip of his tongue, pressing against his clamped lips.

He was with the person that made him feel safest.

_He and Jean had driven with Historia, to her gated home. She'd been denied entry. Finally, a man had walked down to the iron gate, with a suitcase, and a plastic carrier bag. Both of these, he'd heaved over the gate, as Jean swore royally at him. The suitcase, Jean had caught. The carrier bag, small as it was, had slipped through Marco's hands and splatted onto the cobbles._

_"It's okay," Historia had whispered, dropping to her knees and gathering up the items. The carrier bag had held contents from the top of her dresser; a hairbrush, small boxes of costume jewellery, nail polish, postcards. A girl's belongings. The impact with the cobbles had smashed the lid of her little music box. She'd picked it up, opening it. Inside, was a tiny blond ballerina. The box sounded a few brave, dischordant chimes. The little blond ballerina refused to turn._

_"She can't move anymore," Marco said softly, by way of apology. He looked up, meeting Historia's eyes. They blazed, hard-blue and defiant. The small girl raised her chin._

_"The hell she can't!" she declared._

Marco held out what was in his hand, toward Jay-Jay. It was a photograph.

"Jay-Jay," his mouth formed. No sound came out. He cleared his throat.

"Jay-Jay...this is my boyfriend. I have a boyfriend. This is Jean."

She exhaled. _Oh thank God, finally._

"May I see?" she asked gently.

The picture showed the driver's door of an old pickup truck. The window was rolled down, and an impish young face peered out.

 _James Dean_ , thought Jay-Jay.

"Jean," she acknowledged. "this is your boyfriend. The boy you date."

"That....yes. Yes."

"And that little scrap you brought around here? With the glasses?"

"That's Armin. He goes to school with me and he's gay, also."

Jay-Jay nodded. "So...sounds like you got friends to talk to?"

Marco's eyes brightened with tears. "Oh, damn Jay-Jay. I'm scared."

"You're fine," Jay-Jay said levelly. "You're fine just as you are. And you'll be fine tomorrow," she kissed his cheek, "and fine next Tuesday."

__________

Marco arrived at the theatre before Jean did. The late summer air was thick, and heavy. Thunder rolled, east of the city.

A few fat drops splatted onto the pavement. Marco ducked into a doorway, grinning. He trembled; excited and relieved. He would have, at minimum, one family member in his world, and that was Jay-Jay.

He couldn't wait to tell Jean.

__________

"One...two....three...four...." _crack!_ Thunder rumbled and rain battered the windows of the little room that Gil Kirschstein called home.

He shuddered, fear sweat springing to the surface of his skin, hands gripping the arms of the worn recliner in which he sat.

_Damn, damn..._

Lightning flashed, illuminating his gaunt profile; long-boned, like his younger brother, with the same tapered eyes and mobile mouth.

"One...two...three..." his voice rose anxiously. "Three..." Tears sprang into his eyes.

"Hey there, Gil," he looked up.

"Four...five..."

_Bam!_

The thunder clap was loud. Gil placed his hands over his ears, rocking back and forth.

"Good job counting," Jean, his little brother was here. Gil exhaled, releasing some of the anguish.

Jean pulled a chair up, facing Gil, his knees touching Gil's, and took his older brother's hands into his own.

"Storm came," Jean said soothingly. "It came, and it'll go. It's already goin'."

 _"Il va partir,"_ Gil lapsed into french, "It will go..."

Lighting flared again. Outside, in the hallway of the CMHA Residential Care Facility, staff walked up and down, checking in with the residents. It was nearly dinner time.

"One," Gil's strong fingers dug into Jean's hands, "two, three, four..."

"Five," Jean rubbed his thumbs reassuringly against his brother's fingers, "six....seven...eight..."

The thunderclap rattled the windows. Gil cried out.

An orderly entered the room, turning on the overhead light and startling the agitated man further.

He was someone unfamiliar to Jean, who knew all of the staff on a first-name basis. And he was big.

"Ssssh," Jean tried to soothe his brother. "Gilly, look at me. Look in my eyes."

"Who're you?" Gil yelled at the newcomer.

"Hi, Mr. Kirschstein," the care worker held up both hands, "My name's Oscar."

"I'm Jean," Jean nodded at Oscar, "I'm Gil's brother. Gil struggles a bit with storms. Are you new?"

Oscar nodded.

Outside, a garbage can lid, picked up by the wind, clanged against the wheelchair ramp.

"One!" Gil began to sob.

Oscar moved into the room. "Mr. Kirschstein, you're safe," he said slowly. "We need to calm down, now. I'm here to help."

"Give him a little room," Jean's voice rose warningly. "Just let him sit with me again, he'll calm himself. He knows how to calm himself down, just give him time."

The orderly, deciding that he knew better than the tough-looking young repairman, stepped toward Gil Kirschstein, to restrain him before he got hurt.

Gil balled his fist then. Jean stepped between him and the orderly, taking a punch to the face that felt like a wrecking ball.

He staggered backward, as a buzzer sounded, and two more staff members rushed into the room.

"Don't hurt him!" Jean yelled. "Don't hurt him!"

Gil was strong-armed to the floor, with a knee in his back, one of the staff slapping a restraint onto his wrists.

"You don't need to be so rough!" Jean's left eye was swelling shut.

Gil howled in terror. A syringe was plunged into the muscle of his neck. He twitched.

"Okay?" the careworkers checked in with one another. As a unit, they lifted Gil carefully, placing him into bed. He mumbled in french, the sedative taking hold.

Jean brushed a forearm across his face, and it came away bloody.

"Jesus," he spat. "There was no reason that had to get so fucking nuts!"

He stalked out of the room, and into the director's office.

The director rose upon seeing one of the youngest regular family members. "Jean," he said. "Do I need to come and see Gil?"

Jean flung his arms out on front of him, letting them flap to his sides in exasperation. "Sir, what do you think?"

He paced the small office. "Why is a new person working with Gil, without orientation?"

The director regarded Jean sadly. The answer, as was so often the case, was too few resources.

"Things in Gil's room just got stupid ugly, real fast, for no good reason."

When Jean returned to Gil's room, he was oblivious. The storm was abating.

Jean picked up his brother's hand, kissing the scuffed knuckles, holding the hand against his cheek.

Above Gil's bed was a framed picture. Gil Kirschstein, defenseman, number fifteen, captain of the Kingston Frontenacs hockey team.

"You think you got a mean right hook," Jean said gently, kissing the knuckles, "You should see your niece's."

__________

He was okay until he'd walked out of the CMHA Residential Care Facility, stalked down the driveway in the drizzle, and flung himself into the driver's seat of the pickup truck.

He took a breath. And another. Adjusted the rearview mirror to get a look at his cut eye.

"What the fuck?" he shook his head, sadly. "You don't.." his throat ached. His heart ached. "You don't put a goddamn new person in with someone like Gil..." Tears spilled. "You don't...I can't be here every _goddamn minute_...like..."

He sniffed, blood-streaked tears dribbling onto the collar of his jean jacket.

"You didn't have to be so rough!" he cried into the silent interior of the truck, "You didn't have to hurt him..." and Jean lay his head down onto the steering wheel and sobbed.

Sometimes, his twenty-two-year-old shoulders just weren't broad enough to bear the weight alone.

__________

Marco waited. His hopes of getting good seats inside of the theatre, were fading. Patrons lined up, were let in, and eventually stopped coming.

He glanced anxiously up-and-down the street. There was no sign of Jean. Something was wrong. He ran across Bloor Street to a phone booth and called Jean's apartment. No answer. Then, he tried _Lomax Heating and Air Conditioning_ , and had no better luck.

Finally, he tried his own home, on the off-chance that Jean had left a message.

His dad answered. "Hello?"

Marco had expected Jay-Jay, and was momentarily taken aback. "Dad?"

"Last time I checked," Arthur replied cheerfully. "Where are you?"

The strange mix of guilt, distance and sadness. "At a movie," Marco replied. "My friend didn't show up, though. Did anyone call?"

"No, Marco, sorry."

Marco thought of his dad, settled comfortably in his den, rain beading against the windows. "You want me to come get you?"

"No," Marco shook his head. "I'll be home later....and Dad?"

"Yeah, kid?"

Marco looked up. Someone had drawn a pair of boobs, in orange marker, on the glass wall of the phone booth.

"Nothing."

__________

It had been the kind of night where every clank was a hangman and every rattle, a dragon. Jean wasn't surprised to feel himself jump when the phone rang.

He sat numbly, in the dark, at his kitchen table. He didn't answer it. He flicked his zippo lighter. _Flick. Flick. Flick._

His eye felt like a scorpion sting. The ache in his heart was numbing over.

Time passed, Jean wasn't sure how much.

The buzzer, for the downstairs door sounded. He glanced up, like a battered, one-eyed Odin.

Marco. Marco. They'd had a movie date. It could be Marco. Or, if not Marco, maybe Lomax, with a work emergency of some type. Or perhaps even Armin.

Maybe they'd go away. Yes, they could go away and deal with whatever-it-was on their own. Jean had nothing left.

He lowered his head, laying it on the table.

Then, a distinctive rattling, at the back of the apartment. This wasn't the wind. It was a rattle. Then, tapping. And a grunt.

Jean sighed, levered himself up, and went into his bedroom, flicking on the naked bulb overhead.

There, standing out in the rain on his back fire escape, was Marco Bodt, carrying a soggy paper bag.

"Oh, Lord," Jean shook his head. Marco waved at him, smiling brightly. The smile deflated then, as Marco took note of Jean's battered face.

He pantomimed, 'Let me in!' with his free hand.

Jean sighed, and opened the window.

"Jean!" Marco gasped, ducking his head inside. "Jean..."

Declaring his intentions and clambering in through the window at the same time, proved too much for Marco. With a considerable amount of grunting and stretching, he straddled the windowsill, paper grocery bag held upright.

Marco succeeded in getting one long leg and his torso inside. In a near-splits position, he eased forward, when an audible rip was heard.

"Fuck," Marco breathed. He dropped the bag onto the floor, falling into the apartment, a ten-inch rip in the crotch of his jeans.

He stood then, determined to deliver his message, as rehearsed. He'd decided, for whatever reason, that he needed to find Jean; that Jean _needed him_. And here he was.

His jeans flapped, like a trap door.

"I..." he wriggled out of his soaked jacket, "I have come here..."

Marco flushed red, feeling a cool breeze on his bits. His jeans had been destroyed in the rescue attempt. He likely looked ridiculous, with the gaping hole and the denim flap dangling between his legs.

Calmly, he pulled down his jeans, marching them into the carpet until he could free his feet and stood there, in his light blue cotton briefs from Eaton's.

"I have come here," he repeated, "to see you. I had a terrible feeling something was the matter. And clearly, I was right. Maybe I can't make anything better but..." he picked up his grocery bag, "...but I doubt I can make it any worse,"

The dark eyes softened. "So..." he marched toward the kitchen in his t-shirt and underwear, "I am going to make you an omelette for dinner."

Jean took a long, shuddering breath. The corners of his mouth twitched, in an almost-smile.

He followed Marco, easing himself down onto the couch, and watching his rescuer unpack the grocery bag.

"I," Marco was now talking to himself, "I know how to make an omelette. I do. Omelettes are your favourite and I am going to make one!"

Jean leaned back, curiosity winning out over mental exhaustion.

Where, on earth, had Marco been hiding the adorable powder-blue briefs?

__________

He fell asleep. When he woke, Marco was placing a plate on the coffee table. The table was actually Lomax Green's military foot locker, from his time in the service.

"Hmmm," Jean sat up slowly.

Marco sat beside him.

"Look at you go," Jean said very softly. "Look at you go, you damn, determined boy..." He reached up, found Marco's face in the semi-dark and kissed his mouth.

"The first one, I burned." Marco informed him. "It's in the garbage."

Jean winced. "This smells good."

He took a forkful, tentatively, and then hunched over the plate, devouring the omelette as though it was his last meal.

Marco sat back, hugely pleased with himself. He didn't know what had happened to Jean, but he'd managed to make things a little better.

After he'd finished, Jean stood slowly. "I gotta lie down," he mumbled. "There's frozen peas in the freezer. Aspirin on the ledge. Can you?"

Marco fetched the peas, but Jean didn't want them. What he wanted instead, was to lie beside Marco, with his banging head on the warm expanse of Marco's chest, and to feel the weight of Marco's arms embracing him.

"Mmmm," he was drifting off. "Damn, you feel good. You're so good...I'll move...Just five more minutes..."

He fell asleep.

Marco glanced around the sparse bedroom. He'd been here a handful of times. Jean's little TV was on his dresser.

Jean had one of the new channel-selector boxes, attached to the TV by means of a twenty-foot cable. Pinned beneath Jean, Marco reached out his free leg, managing to snare the cable box's cord between his toes and drag it closer.

He turned on the TV. _Love Boat_ was on. He depressed another button on the box and found _CHiPs_.

Jean stirred. "Five more minutes..." he murmured. "Just five more minutes...."

_________

Marco woke, in the pre-dawn light. On the TV was a test pattern; rainbow stripes, sitting there, life paused until sunrise.

Jean was not in bed.

Marco got up, padding into the kitchen. Jean sat on the counter, the telephone in his lap, speaking quietly.

"Did he sleep okay?" Jean asked the person at the other end of the phone. He nodded quietly, taking in information.

"I'll be there later," he commented. He hung the phone up, slid off the counter, and saw Marco standing there in his skull t-shirt and Eaton's briefs.

He smiled then, with one side of his face.

"Come?" he held out a hand to Marco.

They sat on the couch, Jean's work safety-light turned on.

"See. Look here," Jean handed something to Marco. It was an Ontario Hockey League player card.

Gil Kirschstein, it read. #15. Kingston Frontenacs.

"My big brother," Jean explained, taking Marco's hand. "He played for Kingston. He got called up to the Leafs' training camp, twice."

"Huh," Marco nodded thoughtfully.

"Ymir," Jean continued, "Ymir was friends with Gil, first. That's how I met her. She partied, and boy, Gil could party. They were good pals. There was a bad storm, and a bus accident."

"When?"

"Four years ago. Gil is twenty-seven, now. He was twenty-three, at the time."

"It was a thunder storm. A sink-hole opened up in the road, just outside of Gananoque. The driver couldn't avoid it. The bus rolled. Four boys died. And Gil got hurt."

Marco thumbed the card. "Your parents?"

"My dad, I haven't seen since I was a little. My mom did what she could, but there just wasn't a facility in Gaspé as good as the one, here. And I lived here. When my mom passed the year after, there was only me left. So, I have Power of Attorney. I can make decisions for Gil. I do my best. And, the people there....they try and do their best too..."

"So...so what is he like now?"

Jean smiled softly. "Gil is a good guy! Some days, he'll chat with you just fine. Other days. he's not too sure where he's at. He has seizures now. And panic attacks, especially when it storms. But he's smart, and he can learn things. He can calm himself, if he has someone with him that knows how to help him. I do."

"But tonight...there was a new guy there," Jean rolled his eyes, "and new guy thought he knew better than me....and he didn't...and Gilly panicked, and I got clocked in the face. Because nobody wanted to listen to me."

Marco was silent, lost in thought.

"Sorry 'bout our date." Jean said, finally.

"Don't."

"Sometimes I'm just no good for anything."

"I just had a funny feeling something was off," Marco told him.

"Thank you," Jean whispered.

Marco looked down, suddenly self conscious.

"Thank you, " Jean repeated again, kissing Marco's neck softly. "I'm going to take you to bed, now."

__________

Despite the warm August night, Marco shook like a leaf. He lay beside Jean, his open palm against Jean's chest, the hair there and the beating heart beneath, arousing him.

He half-realized that he hadn't called home, but he didn't care. Jean rolled Marco onto his back, lowering his head and kissing his mouth too hard.

"Ow," Jean complained.

"Poor baby," Marco nuzzled into his neck, pressing closer.

"So cute," Jean's voice roughened, "This's got to be the cutest cook's outfit, ever..." He cupped Marco's bottom gently, through the blue cotton. Squeezed, the cotton sliding softly, on skin.

Marco's breathing deepened. He allowed himself a moment of pure self-indulgence; the world blurred until all that was left was the warm length of Jean's body, pressed against his own, and the large, rough hands caressing him through the blue cotton briefs.

"Soft skin," rasped Jean, "You freckled people, you got such soft skin..." His fingers rubbed the tender spot on Marco's inner thigh, supple as butter.

A finger slid inside a leg of his briefs, contacting rigid, satiny flesh.

"Oooh," Marco groaned, then bit his lip.

"Don't worry...Nobody's here to hear you," Jean breathed. "Would you like me to touch you?"

"Yes," Marco spread his thighs wide, moaning in mortification at his own behaviour.

 Jean caressed Marco's erection through his underwear then, a large, rough palm, snagging on the blue cotton, stroking slowly.

"Oh...fuck... _fuck_..." 

Jean's hand disappeared beneath the waistband of the briefs, his knuckles sharply outlined against the cotton as his fingers wrapped around Marco's erection, squeezing the root,stroking firmly upward, calloused thumb brushing the tender underside.

Marco's skin throbbed, his mouth opened and he arched off of the lumpy mattress in wordless pleasure as a man - his man - learned how to touch him, how to stroke and tease until Marco's legs scissored and he cried out over and over, coming into the strong hand, in the rainbow light of the TV test screen.


	6. The Art of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to acknowledge TheGirlWithFeels, who has graciously been chatting with me, specifically about Eren's character, his Uncle, Moroccan food and customs. She is from Morocco! I am grateful to her for her insights, both cultural and spiritual. Bless.

**SUMMER 2015**

His name was Willy. He stood in the garden at the front of Bodt House, where the circular driveway wound up to the main entrance.

Willy was a little stone boy, straddling a stone dolphin. He was chubby, naked and had a saucy countenance. He was also an ornamental fountain, and gleefully pissed a stream of pond water in an arc over the dolphin's head, during the summer months.

Hanji had placed him there, at some point in the eighties, 'to liven up the joint'.

Marco pulled his sedan up to the front curb. On the left side of the house, a square gravel lot held six or seven cars. He got out, stretching, and collected a few grocery bags from the trunk.

He fumbled his way into the hallway, kicking off his loafers. The hallway staircase gleamed mahogany.

"Please," he'd begged Hanji during one mad painting spree, "Please, Hanji, not the wood...for me?"

Halfway up the stairs, where there had once been a sensible, frosted post-war window, was a riot of coloured stained-glass.

Hanji has screeched with delight upon discovering, in an antique barn in Muskoka, what they felt were the original stained glass windows of Bodt House. Upon investigating further, it had been discovered that there were dozens, if not hundreds of homes in Toronto's north end, including Eaton Hall, which had the same window specifications.

Nonetheless, the windows had been purchased, and installed, in the summer of 2001. The window was a joyful slap in the face of the Anglican establishment. It featured winged cherubs, frolicking in a garden and discovering its wonders. 

Marco favourite part of the scene was a pair of cherubs in the lower right corner of the window. One of them had had the misfortune of sitting on a cactus, and wept regretful tears. A second was kissing the injured bottom of the first.

On the ground floor of house, the four rooms to the left were now community space, given over to meetings, support groups and hobbyists. There was, at that moment, a twelve-step meeting underway in what used to be the formal living room. Hanji and Arthur had converted the upper floor into a comfortable apartment, which was their main living space.

Arthur, at seventy-eight, had only just ceased paying a daily visit to _The Art of Flowers,_ which was now the pride and joy of proprietor Bertl Huber. Hanji, ten years younger, held an addiction research Chair at the University of Toronto, and as an activist, was a respected and beloved fixture in the city's queer community.

Marco's childhood home, once a quiet, lonely place, had become the beating heart of a neighbourhood.

"Hello?"

No one answered him, although a good deal of giggling and chatter could be heard coming from the kitchen.

Marco entered, to find the centre island a riot of bowls, jars, and utensils. Beside the island stood Jay-Jay, her salt-and-pepper hair in braids, clasped neatly at her neck.

"Hey gorgeous!" she smiled at Marco, holding out her arms.

"Jay-Jay!" Marco was surprised to see his family friend. "I thought you and Clarence were still in Haiti?"

"Back yesterday," she kissed his cheeks. Jay-Jay managed Eren's second restaurant, _Porte Rouge_ , on the Danforth. It was another fusion experiment; a blend of Moroccan and Caribbean flavours.

"Eren doesn't need me back until Tuesday and.."

"Yes!" Hanji cried, bending over a bubbling pot.

"Hi, Mumzy!" Marco bent, kissing Hanji on the cheek. Hanji looked up, square-framed glasses steamed up.

"Hiya yourself!" Hanji grinned. "Great timing, you've got. Jay-Jay and I are working on a special dish, for Aimee's dinner after the photo exhibition."

"Uh-oh," Marco chuckled. He looked at Jay-Jay, who just shrugged. The kitchen that Jay-Jay had helmed for fifteen years, once pristine, now bore numerous scars from Hanji's 'special dinners'. Burn marks on the counter and cupboards, odd stains, and a circular impression on the ceiling from the exploding lid of a pressure cooker.

"Watch!" Hanji declared proudly. "This is flaming shrimp. But not just _ordinary_ flaming shrimp!"

Hanji picked up a skewer of grilled shrimp, and dipped it into a pan of thick, viscous liquid. Hanji held up the skewer, touched it with the barbecue lighter, and it sizzled into a ball of blue flame.

"Good Lord!" Jay-Jay blinked.

"Hanji, no!" Marco laughed, "you'll burn the place down serving that to fifteen people!"

"Hanji, yes!" his step-parent crowed happily. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Absolutely." Marco's dad entered the kitchen. He was looking, not at the shrimp inferno, but rather at Hanji, whose auburn hair was pulled into a wild topknot, secured by a Guns'n'Roses bandanna.

Arthur bore a bouquet of orange gerbera daisies and yellow tiger lilies.

"Oh!" Hanji cried brightly, "Those are lovely! Are they for the hall table?"

Hanji dropped the skewer onto the cutting board, much to Marco's relief.

"No," Arthur replied, "they're for you, my dear."

"Aww," Hanji stepped forward, squeezing Arthur warmly and planting a kiss on his lips. "You old mush," Hanji said tenderly. "You're such a mush..."

Jay-Jay sliced the shrimp carefully, handing a piece to Marco. He popped it into his mouth. It was scorched, and sour.

"Mumzy," his face scrunched up, "It's awful!"

Hanji's head tiled. "Well. We'll fix it! We don't give up around here, do we?"

__________

**AUGUST 1979**

Arthur Bodt was standing in the middle of his shop, when suddenly the sun was blotted out. He blinked, like a mole. Standing in his doorway was a squat, thickset man, wearing a blue uniform and cap.

"Good afternoon!" Arthur greeted him cordially.

"Sir? I didn't see a trades entrance?"

Arthur frowned, puzzled, then nodded. "Oh! You must be Mr. Green."

He stepped forward, wiping his hands on his canvas apron. "I'm Arthur Bodt."

"Lomax Green," the man rumbled. He had dark skin, a brilliant smile and, upon removing his cap, a smooth, bald head.

"Our back door...it's the second grey door, off the alleyway. I'll send my son around to open it."

"Sure thing."

Marco had been standing in the doorway of Bertl's studio, peering curiously at Lomax Green. He'd never seen Jean's boss before.

"Marco!" his dad called, "Can you, please?"

Marco walked behind the counter, through the workroom and opened the back door. Jean stood on the other side.

"Good morning Mr. Bodt," Jean smirked. Then, he leaned forward, and brushed Marco's lips with a gentle kiss.

Marco's eyes widened. He stuck his head out the door. Lomax's van was coming down the alleyway.

Lomax Green believed in what he did. He'd arrived for the first scheduled maintenance call at _The Art of Flowers_ armed with a checklist, information manual and schedule.

He'd taken Arthur inside of each unit, showing him where to find the serial numbers, what the function of each basic part was, and what preventative maintenance would be required.

He'd assigned Jean the task of oiling, cleaning and inspecting.

Marco went back into the wedding invitation studio.

"Bertl," he hissed.

Bertl was lost in gilding a row of tiny seashells. "Bert!"

"Ja?"

"Come meet someone."

Bertl rose, swishing the tiny brush he was holding in water and setting it down. He followed Marco into the flower shop. Oiling the hinges of the fridge door was a young, sandy-haired repair man with angular features, sideburns and a black eye.

"Jean," Marco made introductions, "this is Bertl Huber."

Jean went to extend his right hand, finding it streaked with grease. "Sorry," he flashed an awkward grin, retracting it, "Bertl. How are you?"

Bertl looked from Marco, to Jean. "Ja, fine. No complaints."

Jean applied a tiny drop of oil to the hinge, moving it carefully. Marco watched the tip of Jean's finger, smearing the oil slowly across the bracket. He swallowed.

"So," Jean asked Bertl brightly, "You like Moroccan food?"

Lomax Green presented Mr. Bodt with a clipboard containing a signed-off maintenance order. He placed service stickers into each refrigeration unit, with the company name and phone number on them. 

Arthur approached Jean, as he was packing up his tools.

"That's quite a shiner," Arthur observed.

Jean looked up. He could open his eye again, but the purplish-black bruise remained. "Yes, sir," he said quietly. "Are we both okay if I don't invent a lie about it?"

Arthur leaned against the counter thoughtfully. "Was whiskey involved?"

Jean chuckled. "Hah. Nope. No, it wasn't." He snapped the toolbox shut, and stood up. "I have a brother in care. He's in a home. His name is Gil, and he has anxiety spells. I got on the wrong end of a swing, is all."

"Gil...Gil Kirschstein. Gil Kirschstein that played defense for the Kingston Frontenacs?"

Jean nodded. "The very same."

Arthur said nothing for a long moment. Then, "I'm sorry. To hear he's unwell, I mean."

"Well," Jean looked at Arthur directly. "One day at a time for some things, eh?"

Arthur nodded. He found the young man's directness refreshing; in his world, most boys Jean's age wore smarm like a sweater vest.

"Say," he asked, "you don't suppose you could come by the house, and have a look at the AC unit before fall sets in?"

Jean grinned. "I could do that. That, I can do. I've still got some learning to do in terms of walk-in refrigeration, but AC, I've got that covered."

__________

Ironically, the day before Jean was due to visit the house on Bayview Avenue to look at the air conditioning unit, it conked out. It was late August, sticky and humid.

Jay-Jay had closed all of the curtains, to keep the house as cool as possible, and prepared cold cuts and salads for supper. Mrs. Bodt was not at home, so Marco and his dad had carried their sandwiches into the den to watch the baseball game.

Afterward, Marco had gone to bed. Now that the Toronto night had cooled, he opened his windows to catch any stray breezes. He lay on his bed as he had done for the past few weeks, unable to sleep, mind racing and body aching.

"Damn," he sighed. He rolled onto his stomach, feeling his cock thicken against his belly, and closed his eyes. 

_One night it had rained. They'd been sitting in Jean's parked pickup truck, in the alley beside Red Door. Jean had leaned in to kiss him...and the kiss had lasted an hour. It had begun slowly; a brush of the lips. And then, a lingering of Jean's open mouth against his - gently tilting, barely touching, as if testing the fit of one precious part to another. The tip of Jean's tongue had grazed his bottom lip then, and Marco had shuddered with pleasure. He'd rasped Jean's tongue with his own, and Jean had moaned; a raw sound which caused Marco to involuntarily arch off of the seat._

_He'd leaned forward then, his hand coming down on Jean's lap._

_"Damn," Jean had gasped, body instantly rigid, holding himself in check._

_Marco had clamped his teeth gently onto Jean's lower lip, pulling. His hand had squeezed the bulge between Jean's legs, fingers tracing the hard ridge with mounting interest._

_Jean, who'd been holding his breath for an eternity, exhaled then, capitulating. He'd thumbed open his jeans, his zipper parting under the strain._

_"Marco...are you...do you..." Words, like Scrabble tiles, forming no sentences._

_Marco had his own ideas, however. Pressing a deep kiss to Jean's mouth, he'd touched two fingertips to the warm, rigid skin._

_Jean groaned. "Fuck...I'm so hard...it almost hurts..."_

_Marco had made a soothing sound. He'd squirmed backward, his head sliding down to rest on Jean's abdomen._

_In the dim glow of the truck's engine light, Marco had touched Jean's cock with a heady mix of arousal and curiosity. Marco had closed his hand around it. The silky skin, and the uneven texture beneath, felt familiar and at the same time entirely alien. The shaft had a slight curve, bending back toward Jean's navel._

_Marco had glanced up. Jean's head was thrown back against the headrest, eyes closed, mouth slack._

_Marco had licked his lips, bent his head and triumphantly slid the hot, hard length into his mouth._

_A half-formed sound lodged in Jean's throat._

_It had taken Marco only a moment to work out that his closed fist belonged against his lips; that way he could stroke Jean, and guide his cock into the wet, lubricating warmth of his mouth._

_Jean's hand had rested gently on the back of Marco's neck, pleasure pooling thickly in his groin._

_"Baby," he'd moaned._

_A loud bang had startled the two of them; the restaurant's steel door had swung open against the brick wall. Twenty feet in front of the truck, Eren had stepped out into the alleyway, his silhouette framed by the light of the kitchen within._

_Marco had raised his head. Jean put an arm around him, tugging him upward until his head rested against Jean's shoulder._

_Eren had leaned against the brick, one leg bent so that his foot rested on the wall behind him. He looked at his watch. Then up at the stars._

_Jean had fumbled, lifting his butt off of the seat and yanking his jeans back up. He'd put his other arm around Marco, lacing his fingers together._

_"Maybe," he'd whispered against Marco's ear, "Maybe best to wait...for now..."_

_Marco had regarded Eren thoughtfully. Eren pushed himself off of the wall, walking away from the truck, and climbing the back fire escape to his apartment._

_Marco had looked up at Jean. He was watching Eren too, not unkindly._

_"Where's he going?" Marco asked._

_Jean looked at his own watch. "Night prayers," he'd replied._

___________

They hadn't been together since. Not like that.

Alone in his bed Marco sighed, eyes closed. He rocked his hips against the bedsheets, indulging himself in the memory of Jean, moaning 'baby' in the dark alleyway. 'Baby...'

Without opening his eyes, Marco reached out, grabbing a pillow and shoving it underneath his hips, so that his ass arched off of the bed. He spread his legs, tilting his bottom higher, picturing Jean gripping his hips with his large, rough hands and pushing his hard, curved cock inside of him.

Marco rocked against the pillow, imagining the rhythm of Jean's thrusts. Jean would try to be gentle, but it wouldn't last, and he'd lose control and fuck Marco hard...gasping that he was sorry...

Marco arched his back, shoving a hand underneath his body and fisting his cock.

"It's okay, baby..." he panted, stroking faster, "fuck me...hard..."

With a groan, he spilled into his bedding, body shuddering.

He lay, supine and satisfied, in his own sweat. He sighed. He'd have to wash his sheets, himself. Again.

__________

Her face was pale and cold as porcelain. Jean half imagined that, where her manicured hand touched the doorframe, frost would appear and begin to crawl up the woodwork.

He tipped his cap respectfully. "Mrs. Bodt? I'm Jean, from Lomax Heating and Air–"

"Good morning," she said brusquely, "The service entrance is at the side of the house. By the kitchen. Janis will show you the unit."

The door closed gently, and with finality.

"Sheeee-it," Jean mumbled to himself.

He walked around the side of the house. At the back, he caught wind of the smell of fresh baking.

He stuck his head into the kitchen door.

A woman, in a pale yellow uniform, was in the kitchen, placing loaf pans of banana bread onto a granite-topped island.

"Morning," he called, "Lomax Heating and Air Conditioning."

The woman turned. "Morning."

Her face bore traces of laugh-lines; this was a person that smiled more than she cried.

"Is this," Jean stepped inside, "the _trades_ entrance? I was instructed to find the _trades_ entrance."

The woman shook her head and smiled. "C'mon in. Let me have a look at you."

Jean stepped inside.

"Take your hat off," she nodded.

Jean obliged.

"What happened to your eye?" she asked directly.

"An accident. My brother, who has anxiety."

"I'm Jay-Jay Post," she told him.

"Uh...Jean..." he touched the embroidered name patch on his shirt.

"I know," she arched one eyebrow.

She turned the banana loaf over onto a cooling rack, sliced off a thick piece and put it onto a plate.

She poured a cup of coffee, placing it beside the banana bread.

"Best eat," she nodded. "Air conditioner will keep."

__________

Marco arrived home to find Jean Kirschstein, Clarence Post and a disassembled Carrier HVAC unit in the back garden.

He pushed the garden gate open. Clarence and Jean were laughing, their heads bent over the unit. Jean pointed, saying something in French, which made Clarence laugh harder.

Jean looked up then, seeing Marco. The mirth softened into a smile of genuine warmth. Clarence looked over his shoulder.

"Hey," Marco joined them. "What's so funny?"

Clarence dissolved into laughter again, clapping his hands together gleefully.

"This fool," he pointed at Jean. "Now I," he jabbed his thumb in his chest, "I'm Haitian. I speak French. Proper French. I don't know what kind of crazy language this boy has..."

Jean rambled something at Clarence. "What?"

"It's Gaspé slang. Quebecoise." Jean chuckled.

"He sound like he's from Mars!" Clarence wiped his eyes. "Damn, Jean, you're a funny guy."

Marco glanced at the house. Noreen watched them, from the living room, mouth drawn into a tight line.

Shortly thereafter, Jay-Jay appeared at the back door. "Clarence!" she called, "Stop pestering. You let young Jean get on."

Clarence muttered something in French, and Jean laughed.

"Marco peered down at the unit. "Is it fixable?" he asked.

"Sure," Jean said easily. It's just dirty. Needs a good clean, and the hose is cracked. Not a big deal. I'll be an hour."

"Say Jean," Clarence suggested, "you want to have a look at Arthur's mower? I've been encouraging him to hire someone to do the landscaping, but he insists on doing it himself. Mower's broken."

"I mow the lawn," Marco chimed in, a tad defensively. "Dad just likes to do the flower beds himself."

Jean watched Marco sidelong. "I could come back, say on Sunday?"

Marco swallowed. Nodded. "That'd be cool. Thanks," he said softly.

"Clarence Post!" Jay-Jay chided. "Get home, and leave Jean be!"

"Yes, my queen," Clarence nodded at her.

He held out a hand, "Nice meeting you, Jean."

"Likewise," Jean shook Clarence's hand.

Clarence left the yard. Marco glanced nervously up at the windows of the house. He stood close to Jean.

"Hi," he whispered.

"Hi, sweetheart." Jean moved his hand so that his finger touched Marco's, where it rested on the air conditioning unit.

"I can't believe you're here."

"Big place," Jean noted. "Your old man...he's such a down-to-earth guy. I wasn't expecting a place like this."

"Did you like them?"

It took Jean a minute to realize that Marco was referring to Jay-Jay and Clarence.

"'Course I did," Jean replied.

"Good," Marco whispered. "they're family to me..."

Marco's eyes flicked to the gardening shed. He walked toward it, and stepped inside.

Jean followed.

The shed smelled of summer gardening; gas and grass seed and topsoil. Marco pulled Jean inside, and against the shed wall.

"Easy," Jean glanced out the door, "What - "

Marco found Jean's mouth then, kissing him greedily, the scent of sweat, machine oil and sunscreen heady in his nostrils.

"We never finished..." he breathed..."I want to make you..."

Jean broke the kiss gently. "I know..."

"I'm not hiding any more," Marco said soberly, "I've seen what might happen. I'm ready. We saw how it was for Historia Reiss. It will be hard. I'm scared...but I know that Jay-Jay and Clarence will always be there for me...the question is, my parents..."

Jean brushed the dark hair off of Marco's forehead, kissing it.

"See you Sunday."

__________

"Dad!" Marco yelped. "Dad, damn it!" Marco hopped across the carpet and sat on his parents' bed, pulling a tie-tack out of the bottom of his foot. "Ow!"

Arthur was in the bathroom shaving. "What's wrong?"

Marco limped into the bathroom, placing the tie tack onto the edge of the sink. "It was in the carpet," he said. "You should be careful. Mom might have stepped on it."

Marco reached into the medicine cabinet, opening a bottle of peroxide. He sat on the toilet and dabbed at his foot with a cotton ball.

Arthur looked at the tie tack. Looked at Marco. "Sorry," he said quietly.

"Don't worry," Marco smiled. "It's just a flesh wound."

He watched Arthur scrape his round face carefully with the razor. "Are you going to work today?"

"Yes."

"It's Sunday, though."

"I'm hosting a little coffee breakfast. The girls and Bertl and I are going to design some Christmas arrangements."

"You didn't invite me?"

Arthur smiled, he dark eyes warm. "I didn't think you were a flowers guy."

He towelled off his face.

Marco stood. "It doesn't hurt," he reported. "I guess I'll see you later. Where's mom?"

Arthur's features seemed to shuffle, and resettle. "Mom stayed overnight, in Collingwood. With friends."

"What friends?"

Arthur shrugged.

"Well, have a nice coffee thing," Marco kissed the freshly shaved cheek.

After his son had gone outside, Arthur Bodt rested his hands on the edges of the pedestal sink, and sighed.

After a long moment, he picked up the tie tack, holding it close to his face, and examining it. The tie-tack was gold, with a black onyx inset.

It wasn't Marco's.

It wasn't his, either.

A bitter sadness settled in Arthur's belly. He considered chucking the tie tack into the bathroom trash can.

He walked out into the bedroom, holding it. Paused. Then, he went over to his wife's dresser, and dropped it into her jewellery tray. Noreen would, no doubt, be able to return it to it's owner.

Arthur Bodt sat on the end of his bed, in numb silence.

The house was quiet. Jay-Jay was at church, and had the rest of the day off. The long summer of 1979 was winding down. It was Labour Day weekend. Arthur had given his staff Friday and Monday off, in exchange for the Sunday coffee meeting. Arthur smiled wistfully. His staff were good people. There was always laughter in the shop, in stark counterpoint to the silence at home.

Outside, cicadas keened in the trees. It was a hot day. He should have planned things better and been at the lake house today. He and Marco could have worked on the rock garden, and gone swimming.

Arthur enjoyed swimming. He enjoyed a great many things that he was too ashamed to partake in, due to his weight. Swimming, dancing, horseback-riding.

"Stop that," chuckled a voice, below his window. It was the deep, slightly raspy voice of the young repairman, Jean.

Arthur blinked.

"Pay attention," the voice chided.

Arthur rose, peering out of the bedroom window. Below the window, on the back lawn, Jean Kirschstein had spread a tarp beside Arthur's riding mower. He had the hood of the mower open, and parts spread carefully on the tarp. He knelt in front of the tarp, Marco sitting beside him.

"When you take something apart," Jean was saying patiently, "what you want to do, is lay the assembly out, in a line..."

Marco wasn't looking at the parts. He was gazing at the boy beside him.

Jean, seeming to sense that Marco wasn't listening very attentively, turned his head.

"Those brown eyes kill me," he said softly. And then, as Arthur watched, Jean lifted a hand, fingers brushing Marco's neck tenderly, and kissed his son on the mouth. Marco's eyes slid shut, dark lashes long and thick, just as they'd been when he was a little boy. He returned the kiss.

Arthur stood, rooted to the thick carpeting, watching the boys. It was as if something that had hovered, faint and indistinct, at the edges of his consciousness had finally come into sharp relief.

He had no business in their moment, and yet he stood, transfixed.

"Who mows the lawn?" Jean inquired.

"I do."

"Okay then," Jean grinned. "Stop being a turkey and pay attention. Now, Armin...Armin sketches everything. You can make notes, or you can do it my way. See, you put this in a row. Cap...bolt...nut..."

Arthur stepped backward. He sat on his bed.

 

_'Fart' was the nickname his older brother Morris had given him. Morris was tall, square-jawed and charismatic. Arthur was short, freckled and predisposed to chubbiness. "Say, Fart, we're short a man for polo on Saturday. Interested?"_

_Arthur was interested. He adored horses, and could play reasonably well. In addition, Noreen Mancini would be at the match. For reasons Arthur could not fathom, the strawberry-blond debutante had taken a shine to him._

_He'd suited up, squeezing himself into Morris' spare uniform. It was a bit snug, but sure to impress, Arthur thought._

_He'd strode out onto the pitch, with the rest of the team._

_The titters and snickers still haunted him, decades later. "Few too many cakes, Arthur?" a friend had teased him._

_"Trousers a bit snug, Arthur," another giggled._

_Bravely, Arthur had waved at them, pretending to share their humour. Inwardly, his heart broke._

 

Arthur wandered downstairs, into the kitchen. He took a glass, pouring himself a lemonade. He went into the study, and called Bertl, asking him to take the lead at the breakfast meeting.

Then, we went back upstairs and sat at the window, with his lemonade.

Marco stood, and stretched. He was tall, like his uncle, and handsome. Although he'd never be slender, he carried his huskiness in a pleasing manner. Jean, on his knees, pulled Marco close, kissing his belly, and nibbling playfully at the fleshiness at his waistband.

Jean gazed up at him. "You're just right," he jostled Marco softly, "exactly as you are."

 

_Arthur had asked for Noreen Mancini's hand. It was a good match. She'd said 'yes', incredibly. They were married on the eighth of June, 1957. It had been a Saturday._

_Some weeks later, the proofs of their wedding photographs had been ready, and they'd met with the photographer._

_Arthur had enjoyed the day immensely; it had been a formal wedding, and he'd worn tails and a top hat. He'd been so proud._

_As the newlyweds were perusing the proofs, Arthur had excused himself to use the restroom. On his way back to the living room, he'd heard his young wife's voice, strangely flat, and annoyed._

_"Can't you do something?" she was asking the photographer. "We can't display these. Then, with disgust, "He looks like a puffin."_

_Arthur had been standing in the hallway at Bodt House, looking into the  brand new mirrors he'd ordered for his bride. A squat, sad-eyed little man looked back at him._

 

Jean had held Marco's attention for a good hour; finally, Marco had jumped up, drawing the dipstick from the engine and racing around the yard with it. Jean grabbed a connecting rod, chasing him.

Marco stood on the picnic bench, poise perfect, the dipstick held out in front of him, like a fencing foil. 

"Quit before you start," he said reasonably. "You've no chance of beating me at this. Just quit now."

Jean lunged; Marco evaded him easily, and managed to smack Jean's bare leg with the dipstick. Jean growled.

"Give it up," Marco giggled. "the angrier you get, the less chance you have," He faced Jean, poised on his toes.

Jean lunged. Marco leapt off of the table, and they chased one another around the yard, laughing and whooping.

 

_"Arthur," his firm's lawyer, Gordon Massey, had greeted him at the Club. "You're looking well,"_

_"Gord," Arthur had nodded, shaking the other man's hand. "How's business?"_

_Gordon Massey wore a crisp, grey business suit, a striped tie, and a gold and onyx tie tack. "Oh you know, Art," he's smiled, "Got my finger in lots of different pies."_

_At that moment, Arthur knew. He could never say why it was that he knew...but he did. That had been eight months ago. She'd even begun staying away from home overnight. Marco had asked questions, which Arthur had deflected._

 

A clink, as the ice settled in Arthur's lemonade glass. Morning turned into afternoon, the sun's rays slanting in emerald bars across the lawn. Arthur Bodt sat in his bedroom, turning over the years in his mind...His father's death. Marco's birth. The grand opening of _The Art of Flowers_. Bertl's genius. Jay-Jay and Clarence's wedding. At some point, before four o-clock, Arthur Bodt finally stirred. He'd made some decisions, and they were life-changing.

He looked out of the window.

The boys has finished their repair, and exhausted themselves. They sat on the lawn, Marco in front of Jean, and sideways against him. Jean's large, rough hand cradled his son's neck, protectively.

Arthur went into Marco's room and picked up his Kodak camera off of the nightstand. He went back to the window. The boys hadn't moved. Arthur raised the camera, looked through the viewfinder, and snapped a picture.

There.

Marco would know, sometime in the very near future, that Arthur... _knew_.

Marco found his father a while later, sitting at the island in the kitchen.

"Dad!" he exclaimed. "Dad, are you sick?"

"No, son."

"But...you're not at work. You...is everything okay?"

"Yes."

Marco dark eyes were wide, and watchful. "Do you want some water?"

"Marco, please ask Jean to stay for dinner."

Jean came to the back door then, wiping his hands on a rag. He stopped short, looking from father, to son.

"Jean," Marco said, looking at his dad curiously, "Dad wants to know..."

Jean took a step closer, nodding at Arthur.

"Dad wants to know...." Without taking his eyes off of his father, Marco held out his hand to Jean.

"Dad wants to know...if you'll stay for dinner..." Marco was trembling. He felt Jean's hand slip into his own.

They stood, hands linked.

"Jean," Arthur stood. "I hope you'll stay. We can grill some burgers. Watch the game..."

Jean squeezed Marco's hand, steadying him. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly. "That sounds really nice."

__________

Arthur had to stop on the landing to catch his breath. The meeting was on the sixth floor of an old design building on Adelaide Street West. The elevator was broken. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket, mopping at his brow. The last flight of stairs was the toughest.

He trudged up, finding himself in a hallway. The wooden floor was old, and squeaked. He opened a set of double doors.

The room contained a mismatched set of chairs, and a fold-out conference table, which held a coffee urn, tea kettle and paper plates of assorted biscuits. The walls were adorned with posters, slogans and flags.

At the front of the room, a rainbow flag was pinned to a corkboard. _San Fran '78_ was written on it, in black magic marker.

At the front of the room was a whiteboard.

'WHO ARE WE?' it read.

'WE ARE: PARENTS. CHILDREN. SIBLINGS. EMPLOYERS. EDUCATORS. COMMUNITY'.

Arthur glanced around, belly tingling with a mix of apprehension and sheer relief. A number of people his own age chatted in small groups. Two young women, fingers casually linked, were looking at a book together.

"Hello!" Arthur turned then. A tall person addressed him. They wore large, square-rimmed glasses over clear brown eyes, and had auburn hair, pinned on top of their head haphazardly.

In that moment, Arthur knew he was in the right place.

"I'm Hanji Zoe," A long, smooth hand was extended to him. "Welcome."

Arthur let out a long sigh.

"I'm Art," he replied, finally. "I'm a florist. I've just left my wife of twenty-one years. My life is a mess, I've got gout, and chronic heartburn. The most important person in the world to me is my son, and he's just come out. He's gay. I'm so proud of this kid...and right now, his happiness is the only thing that matters to me. So here I am. What do I need to know about having a gay kid?" He paused. "I should also mention that I could really use a coffee."


	7. Life, Curated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warmly dedicated to A-Arureuto, a wonderful soul whose HC’s for this AU are the best…cheers, friend!

**AUTUMN 2015 - THREE WEEKS BEFORE AIMEE'S EXHIBITION**

There was a display in the lobby at CMHA. It discussed music and mental wellness.

Violet smirked. She wondered if Uncle Gil was the poster boy for music and mental wellness. Uncle Gil listened to _Crazy Train_ and made huge splatter paintings.

Violet buzzed the door code and let herself into the Assisted Living Wing.

Oscar Lopez, the Director of In-Patient Assisted Living, was escorting a tour through the facility.

"Osca-tron!" Violet waved to him, "What's up?"

She bounced down the hallway, and knocked loudly to announce her entry into Uncle Gil's apartment unit.

Gil Kirschstein was sitting at the table in the small apartment. A large orange cat crouched on the tabletop, watching Gil attempt to shell peas.

He looked up at her, over his glasses. Blinked. Waited. He'd learned to take five deep breaths, relax his mind and examine his visitors. Most days, he eventually recognized them.

A long pause. Then: "Violet Bodt-Kirschstein, number fifteen, defense. Ryerson Rams," he greeted her.

Violet grinned. _Good._ She'd been hoping that Uncle Gil was having a good day.

"Gil Kirschstein, number fifteen, defense. Kingston Frontenacs."

Gil chortled happily, standing up. He hugged his niece, whispering the rest of their ritual greeting in her ear, "You're my favourite. Don't tell anyone."

She repeated it back to him: "You're _my_ favourite. Don't tell anyone."

Violet reached out a hand, scratching the orange tabby between the ears. "Hiya, Puckface."

_It was one of Violet's favourite things. New staff coming into Gil's apartment and asking, "So, Mr. Kirschstein, what's your cat's name?"_

_"Puckface."_

_"Excuse me?"_

_"I played hockey."_

Puckface stretched, turned and butted foreheads with Gil.

"Uncle Gil, what're you doing?"

"Well, let's see," he said, "the pamphlet says... _involve and engage residents in seasonal activities_..."

Violet giggled. "So you're shelling peas?"

"Puckface and I are shelling peas. Then, I'm going to stick them all in a bag and tape it to Jeanbo's face. That's called making amends."

Violet guffawed.

Gil looked up then, peering at her.

"What happened to you?"

Violet touched a finger to her eye, still faintly purple. "Oh, yeah."

"I didn't do that," Gil pressed a pod, and a pea squirted out. Puckface dabbed at it with a paw. "That's not my handiwork."

"On-ice fight," Violet admitted. She grabbed a chair, reversed it and sat down on it, with her arms folded across the back.

Gil pursed his lips.

Violet picked up a pea pod, slitting it with her thumb. She put a pea into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

"This fight, was sort of...the pre-meditated kind."

"Eh?"

"I knew before the game that I was going to hand this girl her face."

The lips compressed into a thin line. Gil said nothing.

"She'd been very insulting to my sister. Very nasty. She'd approached Aimee....you know...made a pass. Aimee said 'no thanks' and this girl sort of kicked off."

Gil pressed the pea-pod gently, thumbing it's contents into an aluminium bowl.

"She plays for York, and I went out during the game and I fucking _lamped_ her, and everyone knew why."

Violet rested her chin on her arms.

"You still wear the 'C'?'

"Yes."

Gil didn't speak for a long moment. Then, "You know. You got to feel a bit sorry for someone that can't risk connection with another human being, without it souring to hate, the minute they get rejected. Must be awful to live like that."

Violet stopped shelling peas. She frowned, puzzling this out.

"How many games you get?"

"Six. And I can't come back until I turn this in." Violet rummaged in her knapsack, producing a dog-eared pad.

"I have to write a letter of apology for misconduct. To the Dean of Athletics."

"You haven't gotten too far."

"Exactly. I thought...you being an ex-player...you might have some ideas."

Gil regarded his youngest niece. Blunt, frank and full of life. He rose, went to his bookshelf and pulled out a thin volume.

He opened it to a page. "Here."

Violet took the book. She read the passage. Looked up at her uncle.

"This," she told him, "is what I've been _trying_ to say."

"That's a freebie," Gil Kirschstein raised one eyebrow, "no Crazy Uncle tax."

__________

**AUTUMN 2015 - TWO WEEKS BEFORE AIMEE'S EXHIBITION**

The call came at noon, Toronto time. Jean glanced up from his workbench. Neither Armin nor Marco was in the office.

"Shit," he grumbled. The two of them had gone for _super salads_ , full of pomegranate, pumpkin seeds, walnuts, kale and other foods that Jean deemed more suited to a rabbit.

He tapped the handsfree phone extension on his workbench, "Chill Design."

"Hey, kid!" her husky voice, a world away, over a noisy connection.

"Ymir!" he laughed. "Ymir, well, fuck. How are ya?"

"Can't complain."

Jean turned off his air compressor. "Sure is good to hear your voice," he leaned over the phone, both palms on his workbench. "Everybody okay?"

"Sure," she replied. "Historia's in New York. I'm headed back at the end of the week."

"Where are you?"

She didn't answer right away.

"Are you home? Are you in Casablanca?"

"Nope," she said. "I'm in Libya."

Jean sat down.

"Jean?"

"Yeah, I'm here," his voice tightened.

"Aimee called me, before I left. She's curating some old shots of mine, as part of her exhibit."

"I know. I found the negs. In the crawlspace."

Ymir laughed. "She scanned me over a few. You were such a good looking kid. What the hell happened?"

"Hey," Jean growled.

"So listen," Ymir said, "I've heard a few things. There are some old friends that want to meet up in Toronto that week. People from back in the day."

"Should be a good time."

"Yeah. I can't remember the last time we were all in one place. Jean...our old gang all know about Tripoli."

Jean's chest tightened. He picked up the handset. "So?"

She took a breath. "So....What have you and Marco told the girls about Tripoli?"

"Jesus, Ymir!"

She didn't reply.

"Jesus! I thought we'd all be getting together to just have a good time. Can't we do that?"

"We will, Jean. We will. But...about '92. Do the girls know anything?"

Jean's hand crawled through his scrub of hair. "For fuck sakes, Ymir. I'm at work, here."

His belly had gone cold.

"Yeah? I'm under a bridge in Jafara," she responded.

"Damn it, Ymir."

"Listen to me. If Aimee wants to curate a show containing some stuff of mine, there will be questions. About Africa. Maybe some questions for Historia. And, yes, there will be questions about Libya. How d'you think it will be for Aimee if people talk about that, or ask her how it influenced her exhibit?

Silence.

"And how do you think that would make Bertl feel? If nobody even acknowledges Reiner? So what? We just erase Reiner?"

"I never said that."

"I would have thought that you and Marco might've talked to them. Now that I know you haven't, I guess alot of stuff makes more sense."

"That was the worst night of my life," he whispered. "Worse than Gil."

"It changed a lot of things," Ymir said. "Tripoli was a turning point, for all of us."

"It was a long time ago," Jean made one last attempt to dissuade her.

"The girls have a right to know how their family came to be. Beyond the mechanics. Violet –"

Silence. He waited.

"Violet..." her voice wavered, "I'm going to lose Vi, Jean. I can feel it. She wants no part of me. And this isn't a six-year-old's tantrum."

"That's not true," Jean said softly.

"She can barely stand to be in the same room as me."

"That's because..." he bit the sentence off.

"That's because I left," Ymir finished. "She bonded with me, and I shut her out."

Jean swallowed. He grabbed a paper towel, swiping at his eyes. "Some stuff, we made such a damn mess of."

"Yes," she told him, "and some stuff we didn't. I'd do it all again."

"Me too," Jean looked at the pictures tacked above his work bench.

_Himself, sitting on the floor, his two small daughters climbing on him. They'd put a scattering of plastic barrettes in his hair, and painted his eyelids with blue eyeshadow. He had glitter swiped on his cheeks, and an oversize, clowny lipstick mouth._

_Marco had come in then, face lighting up with mirth. Jean had given his head a stern shake. Marco had pressed his lips together, and leaned against the door jamb._

_Jean had chased the girls off, and stood up._

_"You can't laugh," he'd said to Marco in a quiet, pained voice. "Don't laugh. If we laugh, we're saying that it's silly for a man to wear makeup. As much as..." his eyes danced, "as much as this isn't my uh....personal style...they need to see that it's okay."_

_"Daddy!" Aimee squeaked, "Pops is a princess!"_

_Marco nodded in agreement, "Yes. Some days Pops is a princess."_

"Okay. Okay. I'll get it done. Promise."

"You," she said lovingly, "are a fucking star. Thank you."

"Get home safe."

"No worries," she rallied, "Moulay Ibrahim is always on my shoulder, may Allah bless his soul."

"I miss him," Jean nodded. "I miss all of them."

__________

Marco Bodt stood in his back yard, in the twilight.

 _If we were at the lake, we'd have a bonfire_ , he mused, a small smile touching his lips.

The night was chilly. He took out his phone, and sighed. Dialled Sasha and Connie's number.

"Hey Sunshine!" Sasha answered. Marco hesitated. Sasha, not Connie. He realized he'd been half hoping for Connie, the more pragmatic of the two.

"Sash."

"Have you seen Aimee's pictures?" Sasha laughed. "Oh my God, they take me back..."

"I've seen some of them," Marco replied.

"You look like an absolute _baby boy_ ," Sasha continued. "How old were you in '79? Sixteen?"

"No! I was twenty!"

"You go have another look at that baby-deer face. _Jesus_."

"Sasha..."

"You're not calling about that."

"No."

"You're calling about Levi."

"Levi?" Marco stopped pacing the patio. "What about Levi?"

"We might see him at Aimee's show, I heard. Maybe."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

Marco toed his sneaker in the garden dirt, filling in a hole the squirrels had dug. "Wow. Shit. Levi...I can't remember the last time I saw Levi."

"What's on your mind, hon?"

"Sash, we've never talked much to the girls, about Tripoli. Hardly at all. It's..."

"Tripoli? Did you just say Tripoli?"

"Yeah. Ymir thinks that if both of them had a bit more background, it might give Aimee some context in terms of her show...you know...a narrative for Reiner. And for Levi. And for Ymir, of course...since she's curating Ymir's work."

"A _narrative?_ " Sasha asked. "Marco, are you listening to yourself?"

"It would be good for Ymir, and especially Violet. All they do is bump heads."

"A narrative, Marco?"

He swallowed.

"That night," Sasha said quietly, "was awful. Horrible. Ugh, Marco, what I remember about that night was sobbing my heart out in the alley and throwing up, while Connie held my hair."

Marco shut his eyes.

"Marco...do you remember Historia? Taking care of everyone, when she should have been a hysterical mess?"

"Of course I do."

Sasha sighed.

"Sash, did you guys ever talk to Isabel?"

"Not really. Just that..Uncle Bertl lost his husband, who was working in Libya..."

"Aimee will probably talk to Izzy about it. That's really the reason for my call. They aren't kids anymore. They're partners. And well...you know."

Sasha's tone softened. "I know. Sure, I know..."

"Marco?"

"Yeah?"

"How did this happen so fast? Where did our time go? We aren't Red Door kids anymore. Now, we're someone's mom or dad picking up their Red Door kid, or picking up an order of Eren's couscous to smooth over a midlife crisis."

Marco chuckled. "Love you, girl."

"You better."

__________

Aimee had done Violet's hair. The tips, formerly blue, were now a light purple colour. They sat on Aimee's bed, cross-legged, with Aimee in back, braiding Violet's mane into a fin.

Both of their parents stood in the doorway.

"Uh-oh," Violet glanced up. "Aim," she said, "the _fathers_ are here..."

Aimee leaned sideways, a hair elastic in her mouth. She spat it out. "What, Pops? Has something happened?"

They sat in the den; Violet, with her new purple war-tail and Aimee, arms folded across her ribs, eyes large and alert.

They watched in alarm as Marco and Jean exchanged the nearly-imperceptible body signs of lifelong partners.

"Daddy!" Aimee figured she could break Marco more easily. "What is going on, please?" It came out more sharply than she'd intended.

"Look," Jean spoke, sitting on the ottoman, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Nothing's wrong. Nobody's sick, nobody died. Everybody just relax."

Violet stared at Jean. "Is this about Uncle Gil?"

"No, honey. But maybe he's a good place to start. Did you know Uncle Gil knew your – knew Ymir, before I did?"

"Oh, this is about _her._ Of course it is." Violet rolled her eyes.

Pops stopped speaking, and stared at her, without moving. His jaw tightened.

"Sorry," she said quietly.

Jean turned toward Aimee. "Honey, there will be people coming to see your exhibit, from when we were young. Izzy's mom and dad, of course. Ymir and Historia. Erwin Smith, the lawyer that helped Historia to set up her foundation. Aunt Mikasa is coming home.

There was something that happened, before you were born, which all of us had to work through. Something really tough. Something that people looking at your show, at Ymir's work, will think about, and remember. And that is, Uncle Bertl's husband, who died in Tripoli."

"Of course," Aimee nodded.

Marco looked at his partner. Jean's face was tight, sad.

He continued. "Reiner had a security position, with Reuters. That's the news agency that Ymir works for, in North Africa. Reiner travelled with Ymir, all over the place, in the '70's and '80's. You'll hear some stories when everyone is back, I'm sure.

And Levi Ackerman, Mikasa's cousin, was a pilot for Reuter's. The three of them worked together - they were a unit. They took assignments all over North Africa...Morocco, Egypt, Tunisia, Libya.

On Christmas Eve, in 1991, the Libyan government detained Levi's plane in Tripoli, as it was getting ready to take off. Levi, Reiner and Ymir were detained. They weren't allowed to leave Libya."

"Why?"

"They were detained, and questioned. Because they were journalists. They..." Jean cleared his throat, "They held Ymir, for sixteen days."

His daughters looked at him, gravely.

"Levi was held for seventy-one days. It was Historia's lawyer, Erwin Smith, that worked alongside of our government and the UN, to get him back."

Violet thumbed the end of her braid, "What does 'detained' mean, exactly? Does it mean they were hurt?"

Jean nodded. "Yes honey, it means they were hurt. Reiner died."

"You can't just go to another country and get killed and nobody ever knows about it," Violet declared.

"Yes, Vi," Aimee leaned over to look at her. "You can. It happens to people, all the time. People get snatched and put in jail, and even killed."

"There was a statement issued, saying that Reiner died in Libya because he had diabetes and something happened." Marco added. "But Ymir and Levi don't believe that. And Ymir has spent a long time, trying to get to the truth."

"It was after Tripoli," Jean said quietly, "that Daddy and I really sat down properly with Ymir and Historia, to talk. About family. About you guys."

"Ymir was our surrogate for both of you," Marco said. "Historia had considered it, but she has some health issues that would have made surrogacy risky. But, Historia was your egg donor, Aimee, as you know. And Ymir was Violet's."

"Which is why," Violet concluded, " _You_ are a runt, and I am not."

__________

**FEBRUARY 1992**

It had taken twelve hours and three connecting flights for him to be at her bedside, in Berlin. She was thin, bruised and yellowish. Her eyes burned with a shifting, constant pain.

He'd laid his head on her torso and cried. She'd made no move to stop him; only laid a gentle hand on the shaggy, sandy head.

When he had quieted, she'd spoken, "Feel better now?"

Jean, thirty-five years old, had raised his head, looking at his dear friend. "I don't know," he whispered.

"I'm in one piece," Ymir laid her head back on the pillow. "Mikasa is in Cairo. I don't know if you know that. And Erwin's coming, from Portugal. We'll get Levi and Reiner back..."

She squeezed his hand. "Listen to me."

She looked into the hazel eyes, smudged and sunken. "Listen to me, Jeanbo. I know two things. Two things, which are really clear to me. The first, is that I know I've been put on this earth to do what I do. I know the risks. You'd think I'd have had my fill just about now. The truth is, this incident has just made me more determined. As soon as I'm out of this bed, I'm going back."

He shut his eyes. She touched his face. "Now," she said softly, "the other thing...what you and Marco spoke to Tia and me about...sweetheart, I'm pushing forty, and Tia is thirty-three. We've had a house full of foster kids for the last ten years, and we love raising them. But...we want to help you and Marco, to have your own family, just like we've talked about..."

Jean searched her eyes. 

"They didn't," she regarded him fiercely, "they didn't take that away from me."

__________

**OCTOBER 30, 1995**

The nurse smiled at Marco. Little Aimee snoozed on his shoulder, her stuffed bunny clutched in her plump fist, by its ear.

Aimee stirred, opening her eyes. "Let's go home," she muttered grumpily.

"You look like your daddy," the nurse said kindly. Aimee turned her head, hiding her face in Marco's shoulder.

"It's your wife in room four?" the nurse asked Marco. "No," Marco shook his head. "But a very close friend. Ymir is our surrogate. My partner is Jean."

"Oh!" the nurse nodded. "You're Jean's spouse! We all love Jean! He's a hoot."

"He might pass out," Marco looked worried. "He passed out when Aimee was born."

Jean knew he needed to stop shaking. He wouldn't be able to hold his daughter, if he didn't. His arms felt thin as eels, his huge hands, like jelly.

"Ymir," Historia was behind her wife, rubbing Ymir's arms vigorously. "The doula said to stop pushing for a minute. Breathe..."

"Jean," Ymir panted, "How about you come on up to this end of the bed? You'd be better off up here."

Jean rose, walked around the midwife, and took Ymir's hand. Her grip was like iron.

Jean moved through the next ten minutes, as though he were a bug, trapped in thick syrup. A loud beeping began. The midwife's head shot up, looking at the monitors. A buzzer was pressed.

"Ymir," the midwife addressed her, "Ymir, I need a big push now. Everything you've got."

"What's wrong?" Ymir's voice was strident, eyes sharp in her drenched face.

"Your baby needs to come out, now..."

Ymir bore down; the pain caused a red mist behind her eyes, but it was a deep, organic pain; different than injury, different than torture. "C'mon, brat!" she growled, "Let's see ya!"

The midwife held the baby up. The baby thrashed, her little mouth stretched wide, searching for oxygen.

Then, the tiny, soaked form disappeared beneath a sea of aqua scrubs.

Ymir's chest and belly heaved. "What is it?" she shouted. "What's the matter with her?"

There was Marco, in the doorway. Jean looked up, stricken. "Marco?"

The doctors said something to Historia. "It's okay," Historia soothed, "they just need to help her breathe..."

"Why isn't she crying?" Ymir snatched her hand out of Jean's grip. "Give her to me, I'll fix it!"

A code warning squawked over the intercom. Jean was on his feet. Ymir scrabbled at the IV needle stuck into her arm. "Let me...Damn it, Jean!"

A moment later, with a hoarse gurgle, Violet Bodt-Kirschstein drew her first breath.

Ymir began to sob. Then, Historia's soft-scented warmth, enfolded her tight.

"She's breathing," Ymir wept.

It was Marco that was able to absorb the details of the doctor's assessment. Violet had fluid in her lungs, and her respiratory system was immature. The condition wasn't uncommon, and it was manageable. "Her lungs will grow into the rest of her," the doctor had summarized.

Jean heard nothing. His hand, inside of it's sterile glove, was inside of the tiny incubator, resting on the miniature chest, as he willed his daughter to live.

Ymir began the difficult work of allowing parents Marco and Jean to fill the space between the tiny baby and the world. It had been stressful with Aimee; this was worse. When Aimee had been born, Ymir's grief over Reiner's loss had still been fresh; the burning anger of it had sustained her. This time, there was no rage, no drama; nothing to buffer the raw, primal need to ensure the tiny baby's survival.

She'd left on assignment to Marrakesh as soon as she could walk.

__________

**AUTUMN 2015. ONE WEEK BEFORE AIMEE'S EXHIBITION**

Violet pecked at her phone, sitting alone in the penalty box. Early morning. The ice rink was empty.

It rang on the other end.

"Vi?"

"Hey."

"Hey yourself, kid. Everything okay?"

Violet rolled her eyes. "Everything's cool. Armin's not coming to pick you up at the airport. I am."

"Oh," Ymir replied. "I guess Armin's busy with work?"

"Well...I actually told him I wanted to get you. Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay. Of course. I....it will be good to see you."

"Whatever."

"Violet?"

"Yes?"

"I heard you placed third, in the OWHA womens' hockey combine. Third in Ontario. That takes some stamina, kiddo. Congrats."

"Thanks," Violet paused and then volunteered, "I'm doing the Ironman triathlon this summer."

"It's good," Ymir said in a strange, tight voice, "to see you so strong."

"Yeah. Listen, I'll be at Terminal Three. Arrivals. Okay?"

__________

Levi's Cessna Skyhawk aircraft soared into the deep blue sky over Hannah Bay, northern Ontario. He exhaled; releasing tension as he flew over thick stands of evergreen, rocky shores, and muskeg.

Below him, the Hannah Bay wetlands spread, like a blue-veined tabletop.

He flexed his hands, the right one perpetually stiff. Still, it was a good day; nearly pain-free.

He was to pick up passengers from the airport at Moosonee and drop them at the bird sanctuary in Nunavut, on the other side of Hannah Bay.

It was early fall; the trees below showing the first flush of colour. It was Levi's favourite time of year; soon, the summer people, few as they were this far north, would be gone, leaving a peaceful echo in their wake. Soon, the only road into Sanikiluaq would be impassible; it would be flight-only, in or out.

Levi would hunker down, take care of his less-mobile neighbours, light his woodstove and write.

The small Cessna wheeled around the mouth of the Moose River, approaching the small airport from the north. He set down. The signalman was easily identifiable by his gourd-shaped profile and goggles.

Levi taxied to a halt, made his log entry and powered down. He stretched, the timeworn leather flight jacket creaking companionably.

He stood and exited the plane, a chill wind lifting the mane of black hair, shot with grey.

"Marvin," he greeted the signalman.

"Levi," Marvin Whitecap nodded, eyes invisible behind the thick goggles he wore, which gave him the appearance of an overfed mole.

Levi shouldered his pack. He'd have time for some hot food before the two o'clock departure.

"You're picking up students," Marvin offered, without being asked. "From Montreal. Two of them."

Despite his small stature, Levi's step was brisk. Marvin lumbered alongside him.

"And the prop guy. From McLaren's. You know."

Levi stopped. "No. I don't think so, Marvin. He's coming out at the end of October."

"No, he's sitting in the diner. I didn't invent him," Marvin said amiably. "You know the guy. From McLaren's Propellors. Big guy. Got one arm. Hazard of the job, I guess."

"I know who you mean," Levi nodded. "He's called Teague, and he's got one arm. But he's coming at the end of October."

Marvin shook his head. The two men approached the airport's small diner.

Marvin went in first, satisfied that all of the passengers were accounted for.

Levi followed, removing his aviator shades and pocketing them. He blinked in the gloom, his nose filling with the warmth of woodstove, coffee and grilled burgers.

"See?" Marvin said, goggles perched on his forehead. "The guy from McLaren's."

A tall man, fair-haired and broad-shouldered, rose from the table at which he'd been sitting, leather gloves folded neatly on it's melamine surface.

"That guy."

"That's not the McLaren's guy, Marvin."

"No?"

"No. That's my husband."

__________

Levi strode across the muddy airport field, fear knotting his muscles painfully. Several steps behind, Erwin Smith followed.

 _His hair is so long_ , Erwin thought, watching it play across the strong, wiry back.

In the privacy of the metal airplane hangar, Levi turned, facing Erwin.

"What's happened?" he asked quietly.

Erwin wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"Erwin?"

"Your hair...it's long."

"It keeps me warm," the grey eyes hardened. "Please stop managing this conversation, and give me what news you have. Has something happened to Mikasa?"

"No! No, nothing like that."

"Well, what?"

"Please," Erwin said softly, "Can't we have some lunch? A coffee?"

"Not until you tell me why you're here. You know how shitty it is to prolong difficult news. Just, stop."

"I want to invite you to come back with me, to Toronto. I want you to come and see Jean's daughters. Aimee is having an exhibit of photography, at Red Door. It includes Ymir's local work, stuff Jean had been hanging on to. Mikasa is coming home for it. Ymir and Historia are coming."

The lines of Levi's body relaxed, softened. He swallowed.

"This is why you came? You could have called."

Erwin took a few steps, closing the space between them. "Levi, it would be good if you were there."

"I can't breathe in Toronto."

"Bertl will be there."

Levi looked up at Erwin. The blue eyes drew him in.

"I don't care if you stay up here for the rest of your life," Erwin said. "Well, actually I do care a great deal, but that's another matter. But, wherever you stay, you should do so in peace. As much peace as you can expect. Come to the city. There are things that need to be said."

"Shit," Levi sighed.

Erwin stood in front of him and took a chance, lifting his fingers to brush the curtain of dark hair.

"This is fascinating to me," Erwin said softly.

"Is that right?"

Levi raised himself, stretching up, feeling Erwin's arm curl around his back. He relaxed against Erwin, tugging his face down and kissing his lips, softly. His breath huffed out into the cold air. The familiar taste of Erwin's mouth ignited a hot ache in his belly. He kissed his husband again, lips and thighs parting.

"I'll be back here by four," Levi said thickly, "Get a room."

__________

Four storeys beneath the Grand Atlas Mountains, in the remote Moroccan desert, a United Nations Intelligence site was embedded under the guise of a simple geological survey station.

'Survey Corps' read a simple wooden sign, hand-lettered in Arabic and affixed to a chain-link fence which surrounded the two-acre compound.

The elevator from the surface descended, opening into a long, metal corridor, terminating at a six-foot-thick steel door.

Along the corridor's walls, in neat rows, hung plaques about the width of a man's hand. They were shaped like the wings of a bird; one white wing crossing over a black one.

'Wings of Freedom," they were called.

Mikasa Ackerman stood in the corridor, waiting. She faced the wall, her fingers brushing down a column of the little metal wings.

The wings bore no names, only the anonymous numbers of Wings of Freedom Operatives that had retired, or died.

Mikasa Ackerman knew all of the numbers, by heart. And she knew their names as well.

"Major Ackerman?" one of her aides addressed her.

She turned her head.

"A storm's coming in," her aide reluctantly interrupted her. "We need to be on our way."

She was out of uniform, wearing a simple, layered dress in the fashion of the country, her head covered.

She would board a helicopter, which would set down in the middle of busy Marrakesh airport. She would slip, unnoticed into the busy streets, alone. Some time later, carrying a scuffed, brown suitcase, she would stand in line for a commuter flight to Spain, drawing no attention to herself.

Mikasa's fingers traced the wings of those members of the Canadian Unit, now retired, or dead. Her mind whispered their names.

 

_Ibrahim ou Alaoui, Morocco, Extraction Team Leader. Call sign: Sultan_

_Lars Arlert, Switzerland, Strategic Intelligence_

_Lomax Green, Canada, Munitions & Ordnance Specialist_

 

One day, her own set of wings would join them:

_Mikasa Ackerman, Canada, _Extraction Team Leader. Call sign: Valkyrie__

 

Moulay, I'm coming home. Please, get me there safely.


	8. Lighting the Way Home

There were those in the market that woke before dawn; the bakers, the baristas. Those filling the metal boxes with newspapers. And Eren Jaeger.

Eren cherished morning prayers. He valued the language of dreams and loved to feel their lingering presence at the misty edges of his consciousness as he prayed.

Afterward, he'd make his way to the rooftop garden of the house he shared with Armin in Cabbagtetown. It had once been Lars Arlert's house; he and Armin had since gutted it; the interior was spare, modern and orderly. The design evidenced Armin's homage to the number five; in tile patterns, in window panes.

Eren stood on the rooftop, watching the city come to life. To the east, a thin orange warmth lit the grey sky. Across the Atlantic, his cousin Mikasa was in North Africa somewhere. Ymir was working in Tripoli. To the north, Levi Ackerman, at remote Hannah Bay. To the south, Historia Reiss, in New York. And to the west, Kensington Market, with her bounty, and her ghosts.

Eren ran a hand over the dark, trim beard he'd grown.

Last night, at Red Door, a young woman had come in. A chemistry major, if he remembered correctly. She wore the _hijab_ , and a cotton shirt patterned with cartoon cats. He knew her name was Maryam, and that she liked extra pickles, draped over the top of her hamburger bun. She'd brought someone with her for the first time; a curly-headed moppet in a windbreaker and army boots.

As they'd risen to leave, Maryam had come over, reached over the lunch counter to where Eren stood, and taken both his hands. "Thank you, _Moulay_ ," she'd smiled, inclining her head a little, "Thank you for this place."

After Eren had flipped the sign on the door to the 'Closed' side, and switched off all except the winking blue pilot lights, he'd stood behind the counter in the dark cafe, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I can't be _Moulay_ ," he'd whispered into the darkness, tears plopping onto the laminate countertop. "If I'm _Moulay_ , then you are gone Uncle, truly gone, and I can't bear that..."

Eren stirred out of his reverie. It was time to wake Armin, time to grab the streetcar to the market. TIme to open the cafe, and turn on the lamps that would light the way home for everyone.

__________

"Aimee," Violet whispered into the dark of Aimee's bedroom. " _Aim._ Coffee."

She smirked. Aimee and Izzy were both fast asleep. She set down the tray of mugs, and turned on Aimee's rock salt lamp.

The dark head stirred.

"Get up," Violet crawled onto the bed.

Isabel sat up. Blinked. Her flame red hair stuck out at all angles, framing her bare, pixie face. Violet chuckled. Izzy looked so much younger without the dark, painted eyes and mouth. "Izz," she said, "you look like a newborn robin."

Izzy rubbed her eyes. "Piss off," she croaked.

"I've got coffee."

Izzy reached for her phone and thumbed it. "My dad will be here with the truck," she said, "in like, twenty-five minutes."

"Oh..." Aimee sat up, bleary, gazing around in alarm. "Shit....shit...what time is it?"

"Six-fifteen."

She scowled at her sister. "What are you doing up?"

"Twelve years of morning hockey practices."

"Oh, God!" Aimee kicked at the covers. "The last of the narratives aren't even mounted!"

"Oh, relax," Violet drawled. "I did it."

"I said we'd put everything in the front hall for Connie," Aimee stood, in Izzy's torn Bowie t-shirt, looking stricken.

"Yeah, I did that too," Violet told her.

Aimee crawled back onto the bed, between Violet and Isabel. "Did we get this right?" she fretted. "Like...fuck...is this exhibit even good? Is it...even accurate? There's so much to do...oh, _God_..."

"Yes, it's good." Izzy said with finality. "It's strong work. And everything will get done on time," she kissed Aimee softly. "You have me helping, and Vi helping. And Uncle Eren. It will be great."

Violet rolled off of the bed. "Let's get a move on," she scolded, "sometime before Christmas."

__________

Jean met Connie Springer in his driveway, wincing in the pained way of commiserating parents, whose children have dragged them out of bed for a pre-dawn activity.

"Con," he nodded.

"Hiya!" Connie Springer greeted him brightly. "Coffee?" He held out a tray of red Tim Horton's cups.

"The girls made some, but then they drank it all. Cheers."

To Jean's eye, Connie Springer seemed not to have aged. The brisk little Irishman was clean-shaven and still sported his silver brush cut and infectious smile.

"Levi's in town," he commented to Jean.

"Wow. So he's really here," Jean bit his lip. "Violet's picking up Ymir and Historia this afternoon."

Isabel emerged from the house, wearing a yellow rubber raincoat and dark shades.

"Hiya, sweetpea!" Connie greeted her.

"Please don't shout, Dad," Isabel muttered.

Connie laughed. "Bit of a late night, girls?"

"If I hear ABBA one more time," Jean growled, "someone's gonna eat that record."

__________

It wasn't something Jean had planned. He'd helped to load the framed and mounted materials into Connie's glaziers' truck, given his daughters and Izzy a hug goodbye, sent them off to the Red Door, and wandered upstairs to get dressed.

And yet somehow, he'd found himself sitting on the bed he shared with Marco, back against the headboard, blue work shirt unbuttoned, no pants and one sock.

Beside him, on the bed, an expensive tube of french lube oozed onto the bedsheets.

Marco straddled his lap, underwear looped around one solid thigh, work socks on and hair soaked from the shower.

"There's...ah...ah....there's a name for this," Marco panted, clutching the mahogany headboard and rolling his hips.

Jean's hands slid down his husband's back, gripping the dance-firm cheeks. He thrust upward, into the tight heat of Marco's body. "I know a few names for it," he growled. "Want to hear them?"

"No, really...I didn't make it...up..." Marco gasped. He squirmed, knowing it would cause Jean to tighten his grip, and thrust a little harder to remind him who was in charge.

Jean slapped Marco's ass, raising his hips, thrusting. "You're so good," he gasped.

"It's like...empty-nest or mid-life-something...kids grow up...and sometimes...ah...sometimes couples have a sort of...like...a renaissance...more sex...more..."

Jean flailed, found his other clean sock and succeeded in stuffing it into Marco's mouth. The dark eyes blinked at him. "Mmmf!"

Jean gave the rounded bottom another spank for good measure, then his rough hand closed around Marco's erection.

"What's this called?" he grinned wickedly.

"Hmmf,"

"That's fascinating, baby..." he rubbed the work-hardened edge of his thumb under Marco's glans, the hand which remained on his bottom, kneading the flesh.

Marco whimpered around the sock.

"Do I need to bend you over this bed?" Jean's belly tightened, his rhythm quick, and erratic. He thrust deeper. "Don't think I won't..."

Marco's eyes slid shut, dark lashes like wings. His thighs clamped against Jean's hips, arching and rocking as he came, pearly seed oozing between the strong fingers that stroked him.

"Marco...you fucking...undo me....!" Jean lifted his hips, pushing into Marco, and crying out into the silent space of the empty house.

He melted back into the mattress, easing out of his husband's body. Marco spat out the sock, drawing air into his lungs and lowering himself onto Jean's chest, face against his neck.

The rough hands became feather gentle, scribing soft circles against the freckled flesh of Marco's back, tickling the round bottom, raising gooseflesh.

"Sweet boy."

"Call Armin. We're both late now."

Jean sighed.

__________

Violet's windshield wipers were out of sync. The left one kept even time; the right one lagged, until it opposed the left, and then eventually resynched itself for a few beats. It was a wonder they didn't clash outright.

A cold autumn rain had closed over Toronto. Violet was stuck in heavy traffic on the 409, heading into Pearson Airport.

"C'mon," she grumbled, easing Marco's SUV forward. She looked nervously at the gas gauge. Great. She was going to be late. She knew, some way or somehow, that she'd end up messing things up for Aimee.

"Let's go!" she snapped at the car in front.

_Uncle Eren had been at Red Door to greet Connie and the girls earlier that morning. He'd had a pot of strong Turkish coffee ready, and small pastries with fig and orange. Violet had stuffed three of these into her mouth._

_The photographic exhibit was to flow throughout the cafe; on the wall above the booths and into the larger back space, where Aimee assembled a three-sided white exhibit wall upon which to mount the framed prints. There were thirty-five pieces in all._

_Once the first series had been mounted, using a removable hook system, Aimee had visibly relaxed._

_"Good," she'd said quietly, nodding her head._

_Uncle Eren had leaned on the lunch counter, watching with curiosity._

_Aimee had hung two black and white portraits. The first was a candid she'd taken of Izzy, at a demonstration for transgender victims of violence. It was black and white, and Izzy's mad-hatter makeup stood out in sharp relief. Her keen eyes shone with tears; they cut pale tracks through the black eyeliner which rimmed her eyes._

_In juxtaposition to this, Aimee hung an eerily-similar portrait of Armin as a very young man. It was raining, and he wore a rubber anorak, with the hood pulled up. Behind him, the cityscape was blurred, and he peered out of his hood, eyes intense and enormous in his delicate face. His small chin was set bravely against the world._

_Uncle Eren had approached Aimee, taken out his wallet and thumbed off some bills. "Here, sweetheart," he said to her, "You've made your first sale. I'd love to buy this print of Armin."_

_"Oh!" Aimee gasped. "I...that's too much, Uncle Eren."_

_"No, it isn't." Eren had said quietly, pressing the bills into her hand._

_Aimee had lettered 'SOLD' in tiny red letters beneath the print's description._

"And I...can't even....get to the fucking....airport on time!" Violet growled. She laughed aloud then, wondering if there had been some sort of egg mixup, and Aimee really was Ymir's. Aimee had chosen a very similar career path to Ymir. Both of them had a keen, unrelenting eye.

Violet thumbed her phone.

No, there was no mixup. She was part of Ymir, and she felt it in her bones.

A message flashed on her phone. An automated update, from the airport app. 'Flight delayed.'

Violet sagged in relief.

__________

Opaque, sliding glass doors separated the international arrivals from those waiting to welcome them to Toronto, Canada.

Violet stood, with the others, waiting for the doors to spew out their loved ones.

She paced, chewing on her lip.

To her right, two Asian men and a woman waited, chatting excitedly. To her left a family of energetic preschoolers with sapped-looking parents.

The monitors suspended over the arrivals area indicated that the flight from Berlin, which was Ymir and Historia's connecting flight, had landed.

Violet's belly lurched. Her resolve to try and articulate her connection with Ymir, was faltering. She was beginning to regret her decision to pick the women up by herself; she probably should have brought Armin with her. She hadn't seen Historia in person, in over a year. Two for Ymir.

The doors slid open, and an elderly couple emerged, waving at the harried family. The children squeaked at their grandparents.

Violet looked down, thumbing her phone.

 _How's it going?_ she texted to Aimee.

The response came moments later. _Everything is up, yay!! i guess it's a good exhibit?? The old ppl keep pointing and crying so IDK. did they land?_

_Y. just waiting..._

Violet looked up. And there she was, all five-feet-ten-inches of Ymir. Her hair was long, straight, punctuated by a single, lightning-white streak on one side. She wore cargo pants, a tee and her habitual green canvas field jacket.

Historia was beside her, hair in a loose, pretty bun, wearing a long skirt and carrying a striped bundle across her chest.

Violet waved. Frowned. Her mouth opened in surprise.

Historia waved back, but headed in the direction of the Asian men.

Ymir walked directly toward Violet, her carry-on slung over her shoulder.

Violet found herself shaking. She swallowed. "Hey," she said.

Ymir beamed, clapping a hand onto her shoulder, and inspecting her like a mother wolf. "Jeez. Look at you. You're as tall as me, kid. And solid."

The clear brown eyes were dancing quietly, satisfied. "Hockey is good?"

"Yeah, peachy. How was your flight?"

Violet's eyes slid sideways, to where Historia stood. She realized then, that Historia's bundle had a head.

"Oh my God, that's a _baby_!"

Ymir chuckled. "We thought you might enjoy seeing this."

Historia Reiss approached the two Asian men. One of them began to cry. The other placed a comforting arm around him.

Historia shook hands with the woman, and then with the couple.

Violet looked at Ymir. "They're adopting that baby?"

Ymir nodded. "Yup. I've seen her do this hundreds of times and it never gets old."

Carefully, Historia reached into the snuggly and lifted out a tiny figure. "That's Alia," Ymir said. "She's from Morocco. Her mother died in childbirth. She had no other family."

"She's so tiny!" Violet marvelled.

"You were smaller," Ymir said quietly.

Violet was unable to look at Ymir. Her cheeks burned.

"No chance," Violet joked. "How d'you get from being something the size of a loaf of bread to nearly six feet of muscle?"

"A strong upbringing," said Ymir unironically. "Do you want to meet them?"

They approached the happy group. "Ah! There's our girl!" Historia greeted Violet brightly, throwing her arms around Violet and squeezing tightly.

"I like your hair," Historia smiled, "The tips are purple."

"Hi, _Krista_ ," Violet hugged her back.

"Violet, meet Andrew and Tsu," Historia made introductions. Both men nodded to her, beaming, teary-eyed.

"We're Alia's parents!" Andrew exclaimed in amazement. "It's finally happened!"

Tsu held the tiny baby close, whispering to her.

"Aw, damn," Violet began to tear up. "Shoot..."

"Look at her," Tsu showed Violet, "Isn't she beautiful?"

The woman who was the couple's caseworker, exchanged some information with Historia.

Then, after profuse thanks, the new parents, left the terminal.

Violet fished a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose loudly. "I'm a damn mess now, thanks" she snickered.

She watched the new little family head outside, where a taxi waited.

"I was never that little," she repeated.

__________

"Can we pick up Clarence and Jay-Jay on the way?" Arthur Bodt asked Bertl over the phone.

Bertl Huber was in the workroom at the Bloor Street location of _The Art of Flowers._

"Sure, no problem. I'll bring the van."

"Did you want me to come and help finish the arrangements?"

"No Arthur, everything is complete. All ready to take to the cafe. Flowers, bouquets, Jay-Jay, Clarence, Hanji and yourself. And myself."

"What did you choose for Aimee's bouquet?"

"Field daisies. English lavender. Sweetpea. In rustic brown paper and raffia. Very natural."

"Perfect."

"Anything else, Arthur?"

"Yeah. I left a bottle of Rolaids in the bathroom. Can you bring it?"

Bertl hung the phone up, gazing around the workroom. He had crafted four large floral displays, for the opening weekend of Aimee's exhibit at Red Door. A congratulatory bouquet for her, from her grandfather. And a clamshell container. Bertl removed the clamshell from the fridge, and opened it. Inside was a small boutonniere; a single white flower on a sprig of green, secured with a yellow awareness ribbon.

"Edelweiss," he smiled. "Do you like it, Reiner? It's not too showy. To remember your courage."

Carefully, he fitted the boutonniere onto the lapel of his jacket. "There you are, _Schätze_ ," he said softly.

_________

There is a small street, off of Augusta Avenue, in Kensington Market. During the seventies, it had contained a bead store, the rear entrance of a shop that sold Ontario cheese and eggs, and a small café, with a garden and a bright red door.

Whenever Jean opened the door, he always saw the Red Door Supper Club as it had once been: red-and-yellow walls, garish pendant lamps. A vintage jukebox. Sultan bellowing orders into the kitchen. Eren, visible through the kitchen pass-through, dark head bent to his craft. Armin, all knobby knees and rain jacket. Ymir holding court at the back table, slamming tequila and limoncello.

And, sitting in the third booth from the door, on the left side of the café, a tentative, dark-haired boy with an open, honest face and a single pink carnation bravely pinned to the most horrible shirt in the world.

Eren had been judicious in his renovations. The lunch counter, he'd kept in pristine condition; it's vinyl swivel stools replaced with walnut barstools that could also be pulled over to an island which now bisected the interior, where there used to be a low wall.

The walls were a light sandy hue, peeled back in places to expose trendy brick and slat. The kitchen had been modernized, courtesy of Chill Design. The lighting, he'd kept intimate; retro-style sconces and pendant lighting.

He'd installed an espresso machine, and Jean could nearly hear Sultan's vociferous objections from the afterlife. Eren still greeted his guests with tea service.

It was nearly five in the evening when Jean arrived at Red Door, for the opening night of Aimee's exhibit: _Queer Mosaic: Family, Connection and Community: 1975-2015._

The first image that he saw was one of himself and Marco. He was sitting in Lomax Green's old pickup truck, leaning out of the window. Marco stood on the runner board, wearing swim trunks and flip-flops, and kissing him as if they were the only two people in the world.

He smiled. He wanted to tell his daughters...to tell Aimee and Violet, how time speeds up while you are busy living life; how abruptly the brave, stupid, cocky, incredible kid you were...becomes grey and nostalgic. It makes one smile; the cosmic joke revealed only to those of middle-age.

Violet was behind the lunch counter, leaning on it casually, fingers drumming. "Hiya father," she grinned.

Jean raised an eyebrow at her.

"Doesn't everything look fantastic?"

"You been into Ymir's stash of Remy?"

Violet's eyes widened innocently, flicking to the legendary hiding-place beneath the lunch counter. "Moi? No! What Remy?"

Jean pointed a warning finger at his incorrigible daughter.

Violet favoured him with a wide, cheesy grin.

"Where's Aimee?"

"Upstairs with Daddy. She said she doesn't feel well."

"Anybody else here yet?"

"Eren, Armin, Bertl, Grandpa, Hanji...me."

 

"They letting fat old men in here now?"

"Huh?" Jean turned, to find Ymir standing in the doorway.

"Hah!" he embraced her roughly. "Ymir! Damn. So good to see you. What the fuck happened?" he pulled back, examining the odd white streak in her hair."

"Scorpion stung me. Man, I could use a shot of Remy." she looked at the lunch counter.

"Hellooo," Violet grinned.

"Oh, fuck," Ymir laughed.

__________

"Sorry," Aimee was in the apartment above Red Door. Eren and Armin's first living space had been converted into an office for Eren. He had refused to get rid of the old couch.

Aimee sat in the middle of it, hunched over, her delicate face tight.

Historia was beside her, an arm lightly around her back.

"My fingers hurt," Aimee flexed her hands. "my pelvis hurts..."

Marco sat on the other side of his daughter, putting down a mug of tea. "I understand," he nodded.

"I'm so sorry...I thought I was okay today..."

Historia's eyes met Marco's, over Aimee's head. "Stress pain," Marco explained.

"When I had the prints laid out at home...everything made sense...I thought I understood what the focus of the show is. Now that the images are hanging on the wall...it feels...stolen...like when an archaeologist opens a tomb and takes credit for everything they find...like, this isn't my story?" she looked at both of them, distressed.

"I feel," tears sprang into her dark eyes, "like an enormous fake. Like I'm faking all of it...I have no clue what I'm doing, but I pretend that I do. I fake school, I fake pretty, I wake up beside Izzy and realize that I'm faking being a grownup..."

"Stand up with me," Historia said gently. "Can you?"

Aimee rose, feeling her Dad's arm go around her.

"Breathe, sweetheart," Marco encouraged her. She did.

"You come," Historia smiled, "from a long line of anxious people, who've felt they had to fake perfection. It will be very tough, but it's time to let _go_ of the exhibit, Aimee. If it really is a gift - and it is, a wonderous, fantastic gift - it's time to truly let all the pressure and the worry go, and give it away. _Give it away_."

Aimee drew a slow breath.

"Come on," Marco said, "Let's go up on the roof."

As the fall evening deepened, Aimee Bodt-Kirschstein stood at the edge of the rooftop, peering down at the front entrance of the Red Door Supper Club.

She felt like a bit of a voyeur, watching her friends and family arrive. People unfamiliar to her began to arrive as well. They arrived with lit candles, and stood in the garden. They arrived with bunches of flowers, and placed these into the garden as well.

"What are they doing?" Aimee whispered, her hand sneaking into her father's.

"They are remembering," Marco squeezed her hand. "Remembering friends and loved ones that our community has lost. You, Aimee, have given them a means to do that..."

He hugged her then, feeling her relax. "Okay now? Ready to go and say hello?"

__________

Marco walked downstairs with Aimee. Friends and family greeted her, with applause and hugs.

Isabel Magnolia Springer squeezed through the crowd. Her red hair was coiffed into a beehive. She wore a colourful mini-dress, and tall white boots. Her eyes sported wings of liquid eyeliner, above a silvery pout.

Marco blanched. "Whoa. Wow, Izzy! _Sasha_..."

Isabel smiled, pleased with the nostalgic impression she'd made. "I know. Mom did it."

"I love it," Aimee exclaimed. "We need a picture of you, beside the picture of your mom, Izzy!"

Marco left the girls, walking down the row of booths. Sticking out of the third booth from the door was a pair of long legs. Marco smiled.

He sat down opposite Jean.

Jean wore an odd expression; a teary, tender smile. "Not you, too," Marco snorted.

Then, Jean held out a single, pink carnation to his husband. "I think," he said gently, "that you dropped this. And I am so incredibly grateful...so blessed...that you did."

 

 


	9. A Red Door

The Saharan sand slipped, fine and pale, through her fingers and into _Moulay_ Ibrahim el Alaoui's herb garden at the Red Door Supper Club. Mikasa watched the grains fall, silently.

She closed her eyes, picturing her adoptive father. It was inconceivable that he was no longer inside the café.

She heard a plunk in the garden, and opened her eyes. There, in the middle of her sand pile, was a pebble of pink quartz.

The soft burr of his voice was unmistakable. "That's funny. We had the same idea."

Mikasa stood and turned. "Cousin," she smiled, embracing Levi Ackerman.

"Stones," he said softly. "from Hannah Bay." His hand opened and the remaining pebbles rolled into the garden.

"Levi," Mikasa's fine eyebrows raised in surprise, "your hair..."

"I'm cutting it."

"Perhaps," a tall figure strode into the garden. "Hello, Mikasa. How are you?"

"Erwin Smith," she inclined he her head, "I'm well, thank you. And yourself?"

"No complaints," he smiled, side-eyeing Levi, "Well not many, at any rate."

"Erwin, are you...are you living at Hannah Bay?" Mikasa inquired.

"Yes," said Erwin.

"No," said Levi.

Mikasa smiled. She looked around the garden. There were ten or twelve other people spending time in the garden; it held bouquets, votive candles and pictures.

"Oh, Erwin, look..." she pointed. "There is Mike's picture..."

__________

"For you, my dear," Arthur Bodt placed the bouquet into Aimee's hands. "Congratulations...such fine work..."

"Did you see your picture, Grandpa? The one you took, of Daddy and Pops?"

"I did...one day I will tell you all about it. You know, I always liked your Pops."

Aimee giggled. "Really?"

"Don't get me wrong," Arthur smiled wryly. "He was a rascal. He was trouble. But he was loyal, and he was real."

Aimee turned to Bertl. "Bertl, you made this beautiful bouquet, didn't you? Daisies are my favourite."

"Well..."

Aimee stood on the tips of her toes, giving Bertl a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."

"Bertl, did you see the print...of you and Reiner?"

Bertl nodded. "Oh, yes. Yes I did..." He faced the image with Aimee.

 

_It's summer, 1985. Bertl is twenty six, Reiner is three years older. The two young men are standing on the edge of a cliff. Reiner is in front, nearly at the edge._

_His arm is extended, his hand holding onto Bertl's. Bertl is leaning back, heels dug in, and refusing to come any closer to the edge._

 

"This was taken in the eighties," Bertl smiled fondly. "It's the swimming quarry at Elora. There, you could do cliff jumping, or cliff diving. You know..." he mused, "I have heard a few people speculate that this image is metaphorical. That here we see a gay couple, and one partner that is ready to "jump," or perhaps to come out, and the other boy, he's not ready to do that."

Aimee frowned. "Did Ymir intend that?"

Bertl laughed. "Ah, no...no! Ymir lived to antagonize Reiner. It was a favourite sport of hers. She was teasing us. Reiner wanted us to jump off of the cliff, together. It was twelve metres high. I was terrified. There was no way I was going to do it."

"So...did you? Jump?"

Bertl smiled, his gentle eyes far-away. "Well...of course, Jean and Eren had to race to the top of the cliff, and then to try to throw one another off of it. I remember both of them looking back up, after they had landed in the water. They had forgotten about Armin, who stood at the top of the cliff, squeaking at them and stamping his foot. They tried to urge him into the water. But he was too annoyed at both of them, and he sat on top of the cliff by himself. Connie jumped in. Sasha wouldn't. And Historia...tiny Historia...stood on the edge of the cliff, and she did a perfect swan dive, twelve metres, into the water."

"She did?" Aimee's eyes widened.

" _Ja._ She did. You are not unlike her, Aimee. Remember, courage seldom feels like courage while we are exercising it."

"So...Uncle Bertl, did you do it?"

"No. And so neither did Reiner. He took my hand, and he walked with me all the way back down, while teenagers jeered at us. It only made him hold my hand tighter. So we had a jump-off of sorts, and we had to be just as brave."

"It is a good picture," a soft, unmistakeable voice. Levi approached Bertl, his expression tentative. "That is how I remember Reiner."

Bertl nodded, wordlessly. Finally, Levi offered his hand to Bertl. It was small, knuckles thick from being broken repeatedly, and it trembled.

Bertl took it in both of his own. "Levi," he began to cry.

"I'm sorry, Bert."

The tall man shook his head. "Please," he told Levi, "You are carrying around a great burden. It's not yours to carry, and it's time you put it down."

Levi shook his head, grey eyes pained.

"Yes," Bertl nodded. "Reiner and I had twelve years together. They were wonderful. We read the newspaper in the morning. We listened to German radio. We made furniture, for a hobby. It was the quiet, peaceful part of Reiner's life. And it was good."

Bertl released Levi's hand, reached up and unfastened the edelweiss boutonniere that he wore. He gave it to Levi. "Thank you," he said simply.

__________

"Tequila," his voice had a low, soft buzz, like a paw with claws retracted, "please."

Violet stared. A short, lethal-looking man with silver-streaked black hair was asking her for tequila.

"Tequi_" _Oh. He sees me back here and thinks I'm a bartender. Well, we can't disappoint him._

"And limoncello,"

 _Oh my GOD, this is Levi Ackerman._ He was a legend, of sorts. She'd met him once, when she was about six.

Violet side-eyed Uncle Eren. He was in the kitchen, with Teion. The coolers behind the lunch counter contained craft beer, champagne and white wine. She wasn't sure if there were any spirits on the premises.

"Violet,"

She froze. He'd said her name. "It's where the Remy is. Reach your arm all the way to the back."

Without bothering to try and formulate a protest of innocence, she crouched down, surfacing with a bottle of _Cuervo Gold_.

"Thank you," he inclined his head. He looked up at her, studying her.

"You're Levi Ackerman," she managed. "I'm Violet. My dads are Jean and Marco...but you know that."

"Yes."

Levi accepted two shot glasses from Violet, poured tequila, and floated limoncello on top.

"Me?" Violet stammered.

A single nod of the head.

Violet produced two bar cloths, and handed one to Levi. They smacked the shot glasses onto the lunch counter, shooting the lemony foam.

Violet grimaced, then grinned. It had been a rite of passage. She looked up to thank Levi Ackerman, but he had vanished.

__________

In his place, stood a boy. He was slightly taller than Violet, and wore a purple wool beanie. His hair was silvery, and he had the same sort of finely-drawn features as Armin.

"Huh," she said appreciatively. "Nice purple beanie."

He was smiling at her. "Nice purple hair."

"Thanks," she grinned. "Enjoying the exhibit?"

He nodded. "It's really well put together. Like...the stories really make it come alive, you know?"

"You know anyone in the pictures?"

"Yeah! You don't remember me?"

"Should I?"

"Dude. I'm Farlan. Farlan Church? Isabel's friend?"

"Oh, fuck! Yeah, you are...sorry."

He continued smiling shyly at her. Violet tilted her head. Yes, he still looked lovely, sideways.

"Farlan Church," she narrowed her eyes, "do you know how to pop tequila?"

__________

Evening darkened into night. The candles in the garden glowed, and the exhibit images seemed to come alive under pools of focused light.

Violet had been chatting with a person from _Now Magazine_ , about the show, and the community.

She became aware of glasses clinking, and someone asking for the attention of the guests. She looked up.

Uncle Eren stood at the back of the café, in front of the white exhibit walls. The assembly had quieted.

"Thank you," he began, "Thank you all for joining us this evening...for gathering together. For coming home."

His voice broke a little. Armin got up, moving to stand beside Eren.

Eren opened a book then. "Can we get the younger people to come closer? No need to be shy." He beckoned them with an encouraging hand.

Violet hopped across the bar, moving through the crowd to join her sister and Izzy, Farlan Church, Teion Green, Lomax' grandson, and Clarence Post Junior, Clarence and Jay-Jay's grandson.

Eren took out his reading glasses, turning a page of the book.

"The words," he paused, "The words of _Moulay_ Ibrahim el Alaoui, may Allah bless his soul."

Eren began to read:

 

_Never imagine, that I was without friends. I had friends. A good many of them. I did not pass my days in shadow, nor in sadness._

_I loved my homeland. Morocco is beautiful, a place of a hundred colours, and a thousand stories. I hold that place deep within in my heart._

_I left the town of my birth, in order to live openly, and with purpose._

_The people that caused injury to me, deserve no names. I will not give them any. Suffice to say, they were the people that I trusted, most._

_I revealed my authentic self to them, and they told me that I had brought them great shame._

_When I was eighteen years old, these people chose to tie me up with a rope and to drag me around the block, behind a car, and then to leave me bleeding in the street._

_I was able to crawl as far as my front door, and then to hold on to the knob, and then to stand. In the morning, I was gone; all that remained of me, in that place, was a bloody red door._

_Years later, when I settled in Canada with my nephew, I resolved to create a place of community. I would open a Supper Club, and make food for the belly and for the soul. I saved my money and got a loan from my good and resourceful friend, Lars. I bought a run-down little bakery in Kensington Market. Lars and Lomax Green and I fixed it up._

_The door, I painted red. I did this out of defiance, and out of hope. I did it as a beacon, to welcome friends and family home."_

 

Eren looked around the cafe. "My Uncle Ibrahim, died peacefully at home, in two-thousand and three. He was a remarkable man. Now, we're passing out some small glasses of tea...we will have a toast with our tea, so that those of us that abstain, and those of us that do not, can all drink together..."

Tea was passed around.

"Marco," Eren looked at his friend, "how about you do it?"

"Me?" Marco stood. "Okay, me..." he smiled nervously.

"Well...uh. So, I'm Marco Bodt. My husband is Jean, and my daughters here are Aimee, and Violet. I met my husband, right here...actually right about in the very spot that I'm standing, thirty-six years ago. That night," he chuckled, "Jean was trying to fix the fridge. Sultan was bellowing at him. Eren was line cook, at the time..."

"Marco, my arm is going to fall off," Ymir complained.

 "Um...okay. I don't want to embarrass my daughter, but I will. Aimee, I hope you see that your instincts as curator of this exhibit, have resulted in an incredibly special event...an evening where, truly, we have all come home. An opportunity for us to remember, together, our departed loved ones...Moulay Ibrahim. Lars Arlert. Lomax Green. Our dear friends...Reiner Braun. Mike Zacharius. Robin-Langley-Reese. And...let's also raise this simple cup to you guys..to the next generation...to your hope, your optimism, and your courage."

"He does the toasts at the weddings," Violet muttered to her new friend, Farlan. "All of the wedding toasts..."

__________

Aimee and Violet sat at the island, picking from a plate of cumin-infused meatballs, dates and cheese cubes.

Sasha had seized control of the ipod, holding the high ground with a dinner fork and flipping her middle finger at Jean for throwing quarters at her.

People had begun to dance.

"Good show, Aimee," Violet nudged her sister. "Quite the party."

Aimee sagged happily, her chin propped in her palm. "Yeah. It's surreal...all this history in one place...oh, man!" she clapped a hand over her eyes.

"What?"

"Pops and Daddy are dancing..." she winced. "Pops is doing the ass grab! It's burning my eyeballs out!"

Violet looked over. "Aw, man..." she grimaced, "I hate that."

"I know. Me too."

"It's so fucking embarrassing."

"I know."

__________

Ymir slipped out around midnight. Historia had gone on ahead, to bed.

She paused in the garden, watching the flickering of the votive candles. She hesitated. It had been a remarkable evening. Things had been said. Fences mended. Ghosts laid to rest.

"Ymir?"

She didn't look up. "Hey, kid."

When Violet didn't respond, she turned around.

"Are you...are you leaving?"

Violet chewed her lip. She was wearing a purple beanie that she'd taken from the silver-haired boy.

Ymir took a breath. And another.

Violet ventured a step closer.

"This is the part I always fuck up, isn't it?" Ymir said quietly.

Violet exhaled. She gestured with her hands. "I dunno. Maybe." Then: "My team has a tournament, next month, in Syracuse. I...I was hoping maybe, that you would come."

"You...want me to come watch you play?"

Violet had reached the end of her courage. She nodded, tears spilling.

Ymir closed the distance between them, enfolding Violet in a strong hug. They stood in the silent garden.

"Okay," Violet snuffled, "Yeah, that's enough. That's good, for now."

Ymir dug into the neck of her shirt, pulling a worn set of silver dog tags over her head and placing them into Violet's hand. She closed Violet's fingers around them.

"These kept me out of trouble for years," Ymir said quietly. "Maybe they'll do the same for you."

She examined Violet carefully. "We good?"

Violet tightened her strong fist around the dog tags. "We're good."

"Okay. See you in Syracuse, Sunshine." Ymir nodded, turned, and walked out of the garden.

__________

He was trespassing. On the passenger seat beside him were a blanket, two towels and a thermos of tea. He had his excuses prepared; if questioned, he would tell the park wardens that he was raising money for an important charity, and had a great many pledges...if he completed the task he'd set before himself.

Bertl Huber sat in _The Art of Flowers_ van, looking at the still, chilly water of Elora Quarry.

He tapped out a text to Marco. Re-read it, and pressed 'send'. 

Bertl got out of the van.

Shivering, he found the path leading up the cliffs, to the jump-off point.

 _I could go home_ , he mused. _I could just go home, or go get a nice streusel and read the paper._

He continued to trudge, barefoot and shaking, up the path. The bushes broke at the top, and the vista of Grand River Conservation Area spread before him.

His knees turned to jelly.

 _I'm not going to die_ , he told himself reasonably. _Small youths do this. It's seventeen degrees today. Hardly freezing._

His heart hammered.

"I'm going," he said aloud. He closed his eyes. There was Reiner, right in front of him, hand outstretched.

Reiner smiled at him. _There is so much waiting for you out in the world, Bertl. It is never to late to discover it..._

A warm heat suffused Bertl, despite his shivering. He smiled, and stepped out into empty space.

______________

_Attn: Dr. Keith Shadis_

_Dean of Athletics_

_Ryerson University_

 

_Dear Dean Shadis,_

 

_This letter concerns an episode of violent conduct which took place on September 7th, 2015, during the Ryerson Womens' hockey game against the York University Lions._

_During that game, a fight occurred between myself and a York Lions player._

_I want to offer an apology. As captain of this team, I am sorry that this incident placed unnecessary stress on the team, on the Department, and on you, personally._

_I am sorry for the negative light my actions shed on the Athletics Program. I am well aware that varsity-level sport is a business. And that additional time, energy and resources had to be spent on damage control, because of what I did._

_The choice to defend my sister and raise awareness about bullying and harassment is one that I would make again and again, without question._

_However, I am now able to see that there are variety of approaches I could have taken, to make my point effectively._

_My family, as large and unconventional as it is, is everything to me. This passage, which I got from my Uncle Gil, summarizes my feelings on this matter:_

"Peacemaking doesn't mean passivity. It is the act of interrupting injustice without mirroring injustice, the act of disarming evil without destroying the evildoer, the act of finding a third way that is neither fight nor flight but the careful, arduous pursuit of reconciliation and justice."

_From: Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals by_ _Shane Claiborne and Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove_

 

_Yours in Hockey,_

 

_Violet Bodt-Kirschstein_

_Captain,_ _Ryerson Rams_

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends the arc of Red Door Supper Club which focuses on Marco and Jean's relationship and family. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed reading it!! 
> 
> I plan to continue writing for this AU, focusing next on Armin and Eren's story. 
> 
> Deep appreciation to those of you that have supported this fic, through your insights and life experiences.
> 
> Juice and cookies available in the lobby.


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